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Chapter Text

昨夜風兼 雨，簾幃 颯颯 秋聲。燭殘 漏斷 頻 欹枕，起坐不能平。
世事 漫 隨流水，算來一夢浮生。醉鄉 路穩 宜頻到，此外不堪行。

Last Night the Wind and Rain Together Blew
(sung to the tune of crows crying at night)

Last night the wind and rain together blew,
The wall-curtains rustled in their autumn song.
The candle died, the water-clock was exhausted,
I rose and sat, but could not be at peace.
Man's affairs are like the flow of floodwater,
A life is just like floating in a dream.
I should more often go drunken through the country,
For otherwise I could not bear to live.

- Li Yu

The air was heavy with water, stuck in pregnant clouds that refused to feed the dry earth, and so, everything under the sky suffered. A man walked on, pausing every now and then to wipe the sweat dripping from his nose, stuffy under his straw hat, weighed down by the dusty clothes that dragged along the barren dirt. Even the desert heat was preferable to this torment, with its cool night air-- this, all he had was the neverending humidity of a barren road and the churning of his stomach, so starved that he no longer hungered. He refused to yearn for respite, but the discomfort won out in the end: he was made of flesh and blood.

He fell in a cloud of dust, mouth too dry to speak. And like gnats, the companions gathered around him, fluttering in their ragged clothes as they checked for signs of life.

“Is- is he dead?” the masked one asked with feigned concern.

“So he takes us halfway and just drops dead? Well, what do we do now? And he calls himself our head?” the gilled one rasped.

The hooded one knelt by the Tang priest’s side, calloused fingers undoing the strings of the monk’s hat. He pushed the hat off, unwound its strips of black cloth, and pulled the man into his lap. “Still alive,” he said, before turning to the other two, “he’s still alive.”

“Lovely,” Bajie said, “now we have to carry baldy out of here, great .”

Wujing narrowed his eyes: “I can’t. I’m pulling the wagon.”

“What if we just put him in the wagon. Problem solved!”

“I said. I can’t. I’m. Pulling the wagon.”

“So what? You want me to carry him, in this weather? Then we both collapse and die, can you live with that?”

The eldest disciple scowled: “Shut it, you two! I’ll carry the baldy. You assholes can’t do anything right anyway.”

That being said, Wukong placed the priest on his back, dragged both of Xuanzang’s arms around his neck, and took to the road once more, miles of grey sky stretching ahead. Behind, the junior disciples exchanged looks of delight. Problem solved , the pig mouthed, it worked .  Of course it would , the fish mouthed, eldest brother would do anything for him, and we just enjoy the ride . Haha, yes , the pig replied, haha .

Wujing lifted the handles and marched, rickety wheels scraping the ground as he followed the monkey’s footsteps, with Bajie powdering his sweating face as he struggled to keep up. But they might as well have been invisible to their eldest brother, and as far as they were concerned, it was just as well.

Wukong carried the Master until the sun set, silent feet never once stopping. When night washed over, he gave a simple order: “Make camp.”

And so, in the middle of nowhere, they did. Wujing stopped the wagon, gathered his dirty pots and pans, and cooked in spite of the heat. Bajie slumped lazily beside him, too frazzled to complain, and not far away, Wukong set the Tang priest down on a pile of scratchy blankets. Without a peep, the pig watched him tend their Master, spilling water from his wooden canteen into that parched mouth. Wukong cradled the monk’s head, fingers prodding Xuanzang’s lips to prevent a choke. Almost hungrily, Bajie looked on, oblivious to Wujing’s deadpan glare.

“Congee’s ready.”

“Took you long enough! Eldest brother, food’s ready!”

Wukong: “You have legs, don’t you? Bring it over!”

“Right away, boss, right away! Little brother, you bring the boss his food, alright?”

Wujing: “Fuck you.”

Wukong never touched the congee. After Friar Sand came and left with the bowl, he took to spooning bits into the priest’s mouth, little by little until the monk was surely full. He hovered there for the rest of the night, pouring water into Xuanzang’s mouth, and soothing the Master’s fevered moans with soft strokes against that bald head. It was too hot for the other two to sleep, and with nothing better to do, they watched the monkey work. Wukong never drank from the canteen.

“The boss can be pretty dumb, don’t you think?” Bajie whispered, shifting on his side to face the fish, “Master won’t know he did any of this. And he won’t tell either. Tomorrow he’ll just go back to being the ‘bad monkey.’”

“How do you know Master doesn’t know?” Wujing narrowed his eyes at the priest in the distance, still cradled in Wukong’s lap. “He’s a slick one. For all we know, he’s pretending to sleep. But he won’t let any of us know, especially eldest brother.”

Bajie: “Why?”

Wujing: “Because he knows himself best, and when it comes to eldest brother, Master wants him to be that ‘bad monkey.’ It’s easier that way.”

“Easier, eh? Doesn’t look that way to me… well, sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, your head.”

The junior disciples slept and when dawn came, they were kicked awake by their senior. Wukong once again placed the Tang priest on his back and after their makeshift camp was packed away, the four journeyed on. The monk didn’t stir until well into the afternoon, when he awakened to the scent of unwanted hay and murky dirt, the texture of wildgrass on his sleeves and skin, and all else that made up and was his third-foe first-disciple. Coming to, he promptly slipped off Wukong’s dusty cloak, and without casting the monkey so much as a glance, Xuanzang croaked between limps on numb legs, “I can walk from here. I was just testing to see if you three hooligans would abandon me.”

“Too bad you woke up, baldy,” Wukong said with a roll of his eyes, “we were planning to chop you up and eat you.”

Bajie: “What a terrible joke to make! Master, don’t listen to him. We never left your side. I cried and prayed for you. I’m just so- so happy you’re fine!”

Wukong: “Does he make you want to throw up, Master?”

Bajie stepped behind Wujing to wipe his tears, Wukong’s eyes flashing murder as he trudged past them and that rickety wagon. Ahead, Xuanzang sighed, stopped, and turned: “Wa- water.” Wordless, Wukong opened the Master’s canteen, walked up to the priest’s side, pressed it to his lips, and swung the monk’s right arm over his own shoulder. And side by side, they trekked on.

Grateful for the aid, Xuanzang called back to the other two, “See? This is how you respect your elders!”

“You’re not even thirty!” Wujing snapped.

The pilgrims plodded along until the end of noon, basked in the unwanted warmth of a blood red sun. Xuanzang was in the lead, not because he was any faster than usual, but because the other three were much slower, too cooked to quicken. The monk licked his cracked lips for the upteenth time, barely any saliva left to soothe his dry throat.

Behind the Tang priest, Friar Sand dragged the wagon onwards, blue skin shining with sweat, drenched robes wrapped around his bare waist. Slowed to a limp beside him, Bajie eyed Wujing with disdain, leaned on the nine-toothed rake, and said, “You really had to strip here? Aren’t you sexy enough already?”

Wujing: “I don’t need you to tell me how sexy I am!”

Bajie: “Right, because we’re all dying to see those fish pecs!”

Stick over shoulders, Wukong shoved his way past the arguing brothers with a muttered, “zip it before I zip it for you,” frazzled hair dripping with sweat. The cloak lay draped about his back, too heavy to bear in the weather. He looked to the air again, convinced that the rain was refusing to fall out of spite. He always knew the dragon clan were assholes.

“Master,” he said with a tilt of the chin, “look there.”

Xuanzang looked to where he pointed. And nearly wept with joy. Red roof, bamboo gate, a fine well in front. A grand mansion stood several steps away, vast, rich, and best of all, shaded by high healthy trees. “Amitabha,” Xuanzang croaked, “praise Buddha.”

And just as he turned to share the good news with his disciples, Xuanzang realized the trio had run past him, already halfway to the mansion door. “You heartless demons!” he cried, “leaving your master behind like this!”

And left with no choice, the Tang priest ran after them, uselessly complaining all the while. The four reached the gate, whereupon Xuanzang desperately started shouting, to the protests of his throat, “Hello! Your humble guest is the priest, Tang Sanzang, from the kingdom Tang, sent to retrieve the holy sutra from-” He trailed off, voice overcome with dry coughs, before resuming, “-from the western paradise! I and my disciples have come-” Another bout of gasping took over. “-come from far away, and we kindly request-”

Wukong: “Cut to the chase! Old Sha’s turning into fried fish!”

Bajie: “Please, Master- this heat is terrible for my skin!”

Xuanzang: “ We need water! Please! ”

Bajie: “And food! And a place to rest! And maybe a woman while you’re at it- just you know, to serve us! But not sexually!”

Wukong smacked the pig over the head. “Keep talking and they’ll never let us in!”

Bajie opened his mouth to say, “Master, he’s bullying me!” but never had the chance to get the first word out. By then, the gate had swung open and standing before them was the most beautiful woman Tianpeng had ever seen, barring Chang’er. She stood proud, handsome face serene with just a touch of makeup, hair coiled into a long bun resting on her scalp, and green silk robes doing little to hide her rounded hips and full breasts.

“Venerable elder, would you like to come in?” she asked.

Xuanzang could only foolishly nod. He looked to his disciples, and on cue, all three began bobbing their heads as well.

Liu Xinan was the owner of the house, an inheritance from her dead husband, and it was just as splendid inside as it was out. She told the venerable elder that she had lived a good many years inside with nothing but the company of her servants and daughters, twelve in number and each prettier than the last, much to Bajie’s delight. The Liu family was much obliged to receive Xuanzang, and it was with the utmost joy that they prepared a feast for the pilgrims.

Any other day Xuanzang would have been embarrassed to enter such a fine home looking so dirty. But now he was too uncomfortable to care. He and the demons sat in a row behind Liu’s long table, dirty, sweaty, and dressed in rags (or in Bajie’s case, fine clothes that might as well be rags), cloaks, scarves, tools, and robes strung all over the ground. They hungrily lapped up the family’s water and shamelessly let themselves be fanned by plantain leaves.

Across, Liu’s daughters watched them with shy curiosity, giggling as each pilgrim ate. Wukong paid them no mind, taking bite after bite of the peaches offered, the juice dribbling down that tanned chin. Friar Sand paid even less mind as he grabbed a pot of water from the servant’s hands- splash! He dumped it over his own head and yes, it felt good. Bajie stuffed his face with everything on the table, rice, plums, steamed greens, and all, shifting between pig and dandy every few seconds. Mortified, Xuanzang picked at his rice in silence, half resisting the urge to fling his chopsticks at Bajie’s head. Or Wujing’s. Or Wukong’s. Or maybe his own and end this shame.

“Sister, which one do you fancy?”

“Oh, the master is very handsome. So refined too.”

“He’s the most charming of their group, yes.”

“Do you think mother would approve?”

“Of the pig man, I’m not sure, but then again…”

“I’m fonder of the first disciple. Rugged, mysterious, oh…”

“That peach, oh…”

“I think the third disciple would be an interesting character.”

“He’d certainly be good around the house, yes. Those muscles...”

“The second disciple’s batting his eyelashes. Look- he’s pretty this way.”

“They have such big appetites… I wonder how to please them…”

“Four of them, and twelve of us? How will this work?”

The daughters whispered among themselves, smiling and giggling as they exchanged thoughts, each word passing clearly through the monkey’s ears. But Wukong’s only reaction was an eyeroll. Bajie was much more excited at what he could hear, silently hoping for a chance to rest from their pilgrimage at last.

Liu took a sip of tea. She sighed, stared at her girls, and turned to Xuanzang. “Venerable elder,” she said sadly, “it may not seem that way but my family is in dire straits.”

Concerned, the monk asked, “What is it, kind bodhisattva, and how may we help?”

“We live in this isolated house and it’s far too dangerous for a group of vulnerable women to be on the road for long. We have no neighbors for miles on end, let alone families of renown.”

“Would you like us to accompany you on your travels? My disciples have valuable skills.”

“No, no, far too dangerous-”

“But-”

“ Too dangerous . Now… what I meant to say was, it would be much easier to stay here. I worry for my children’s future, as any mother would, as well as my poor husband’s family line.”

“Would you like us to help you find suitable matches? I’m sure there are gentle, hardworking men willing to help you, waiting to be sought out.”

Liu smiled. “In a way, yes. We met by a stroke of luck today. Venerable elder, the best men are sitting right here at my table. I would like to marry four of my daughters to you and your disciples.”

Xuanzang: “WHAT.”

Wujing: “Marry, your head!”

Wukong: “Master, now’s our chance to get rid of the pighead!”

Bajie: “Master, brothers! How can we leave a tearful, beautiful woman in need, let alone thirteen? It’s our duty to help!”

Xuanzang put down his chopsticks and shook his head, too shocked to think of a better reply. “N- no!” he said, “I’m sorry, bodhisattva, we’d love to help. But this- we- we’re holy men, on our way to the western paradise. We simply cannot do this. You must be mistaken.”

But Liu was unrelenting, clearly refusing to take no for an answer. Wukong snickered, offering no solution as the monk looked to him for help, nearly beside himself with ugly laughter. “Oh, this is rich! You’re really the ladies man, master.” And when Xuanzang continued to stare at him like a helpless lamb, he said, “Ah, stop looking at me, baldy. You’re the master- you decide.”

Bajie: “Master, I will sacrifice for our quest! I’ll stay and you can go on!”

“Your second disciple is so devoted,” Liu said, moved by the pig demon’s words, “I do hope his spirit spreads to the rest of you.”

“Bodhisattva, my answer is still no. We’re men of the temple.”

“Men are men, all the same. Elder, you’ll be married to my eldest. I’ll make you the master of the house. All of this- our fortune, our servants, all this fine land- will belong to you.”

“Please! There’s really no need. We can’t possibly-”

“I see you’re having trouble deciding. Then why not take the night to think it over?”

“But I said no-”

“Yes, I see that this is a difficult decision for you. Come, daughters. Let us retire and leave the monks to rest.”

“I,” Xuanzang stuttered, “but, I- wait-”

“You,” Liu said, ignoring the priest as she gestured at a pair of maids, “show the venerable elder and his disciples to their rooms. Prepare a bath for them and tend to their every need.”

Bajie looked to the young women in question and batted his lashes, framing his pretty, perfected face with baby-smooth hands. “Well, if the madame insists, it can’t be helped.”

He never saw the results of his flirting because the boss chose that moment to dig both his hands into Bajie’s scalp and slam his face flat against the table. “Damn pig,” the monkey hissed. And giggling at the sight, the maids left the room.

Water was bliss against his skin. Releasing another moan of pleasure, Wujing submerged himself in the Liu family spring, gills happily absorbing every bit of water that came through. The water was cool, refreshing, everything he needed to replenish those sore muscles. The heat was no more than a thing of the past, a nightmare of the past.

“Stop those noises,” Bajie said, a good three feet away, now a homely pig free from the eye of pretty girls, “you’d be in trouble if the boss heard you.”

“Fuck the boss.”

“Stop that, you want to get us both killed?”

Bajie shifted, dirt clearing from layers of pink fat, and sighed, allowing his true form a brief respite of comfort. “That baldy has to make his decision soon. If he’s smart, he’ll let us all stay.”

“Tsk. You’re the one who wants to stay.”

Wujing looked to the sky, now shrouded with stars and grey clouds, its sun replaced with a waning moon. Save for Bajie’s chatter, the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves were the only sounds around. The maids had left them fresh robes for bed and cloths to dry their bodies by the spring rocks. Then they’d taken the pilgrims’ dirty clothes for washing and abandoned them to their own devices. Now the disciples bathed in fresh, clean water under the cover of bushes and trees. Only the eyes of miniature maidens surrounded them, the stone statues modeled after the Jade Emperor’s seven celestial daughters.

It had been centuries since he last bathed in heaven. Wujing could barely recall the sensation. But he was a monster now- that was just a thing of the past.

“It’d be nice, you know,” the pig continued, “just us and these women. Waiting on us hand and foot, all we can eat, no more of this sutra crap- it’d be like heaven.”

He chuckled, an ugly piggish sound: “Just like heaven.”

Wujing: “Heaven wasn’t that great anyway!”

With that, he violently sent a splash of water in Bajie’s direction. Returning the favor with an offended cry, Bajie splashed back. And as they assaulted themselves with Liu’s spring water, the Tang priest listened on from his hiding place behind the leftmost bush.

Xuanzang had bathed before his disciples, on the grounds that, “The Master deserves to clean up first- you three should know that by now!” He’d used that time to gather his thoughts, or rather, tried to, because the monk had fallen into a dreamless doze and when he awoke, the maids were there to dry him off. “Amitabha,” he’d said in silence as they patted him from head to toe, taking far longer than necessary.

When the maids finally took their leave, he chose to stroll about the Liu garden and when he saw the daughters circling about as well, realized he had nowhere to turn. He had no desire to engage in small talk with Bajie and Wujing, so the only thing left to do was hide.

And spy.

As the disciples badmouthed him, Xuanzang held his tongue in check and decided. His answer would stay a solid “no.” Even upon torture, he would say “no.” If worse came to worst, he’d just leave Bajie behind. Besides, he couldn’t possibly think of marriage-- only in his dreams, and even then-

He looked up. The moon. He thought of her twirling under it, dirty, wild, borderline insane, and yet, beautiful, so, so beautiful. All things considered, Xuanzang was not an indecisive man; he knew himself well and he knew Duan was the only woman he ever wanted, in this lifetime and the next, perhaps even the last. I never knew her name . Never had the chance. And now Duan was a memory, a lively, charming memory, strung together by could-have-beens and should-have-dones.

And then there was Wukong. Stormy, thunderous Wukong who’d taken Duan from him in one swipe. And even so, even so , Xuanzang knew this grudge would take either of them nowhere. He was not an indecisive man- he knew very well how he felt about that monkey. He knew what held them together, what kept them apart, knew that under it all, he didn’t hate his disciple. At one point he did, he very much did. But now- he knew very well how he felt. And he knew very well that he would never speak of it; he was too human to try.

He couldn’t think about women without thinking of Duan. And he couldn’t think of Duan without thinking of Wukong. And he couldn’t think of Wukong without thinking of Duan. He smiled in spite of himself. The journey west would go on, and he would find a way to solve this en route. Yes, that was a wise way to think about it. Liu was just another obstacle and he’d overcome that too. He was the great Xuanzang of Tang. But he’d keep that to himself because he was low key.*

Then, for the first time that night, Xuanzang found himself wondering: where was Wukong anyway?

He would tell the rest of them he was looking for eldest brother if they asked. That was Bajie’s rehearsed excuse as he prowled the garden for women. He fluffed his hair, put on this beautiful form’s most charming smile, and spread his fan. The fish was still soaking in the bath and that baldy had probably gone to bed. And if the heavens smiled on him, the monkey would leave him alone too. All thirteen women and their eight maids, barring the four manservants, all to himself. He swallowed the incoming drool.

But all he saw were lifeless sculptures and trees, and a few dangling lanterns here and there. Behind him, a leaf crunched.

Bajie froze and turned, knowing full well who was at his back-- the first disciple stood still, head bowed, shoulders slouched, a twig between his teeth, and hands poised for murder. “Oh, boss, it’s you!”

Wukong lifted his eyes just enough to cast him a threatening glare.

Bajie strolled up to him, desperate to appease the boss’ scorn. “Big brother, I was looking for you all over! We were worried!”

“You’re always full of so much crap. It’s a miracle you haven’t choked on it.”

He was teasing him, or that was how Bajie chose to interpret it; that meant eldest brother wasn’t in too bloodthirsty a mood. So laughing much louder than need be, Bajie strolled up to the monkey, clapped him on the back, and said, “Oh, you’re hilarious, boss! Ha ha ha, ha ha ha!”

Met with the other demon’s eerie silence, Bajie took another look at him, just to be sure Wukong wasn’t planning to impede him. The monkey was still in his traveler’s gear, ragged cloak and all, a sure sign that he hadn’t visited the springs. Bajie patted him on the back again, palm digging against the sweat-soaked cloth. “You didn’t bathe, boss? You know how much that baldy values cleanliness. Come on, it’s right over-”

“Don’t touch me!” Wukong snarled, hand crushing over Bajie’s wrist. He yanked it away with a swift snap, shoved Bajie down, and let go when the screaming pig hit the pavement.

Bajie: “Boss! Boss! Wait-”

A foot smashed against his nose, and- crunch!- Blood poured from that pig snout. Bajie curled in on himself, cowering when Wukong shot him another glare.

“ Damn pig ,” he hissed.

And with that, the monkey left. Bajie waited until he was out of earshot before picking himself up, adjusting his head with a few pops and cracks, and willing his nose to heal. His right palm was bloodied, but he could detect no wound. From the nose, then. He wiped it against his skirt. Then he ran his hands over that handsome face to make sure it was clean, sightly, and most importantly, free of blood. Thankfully, it was in tact. Stinking monkey, fuck you- tonight’s not the time to get kinky with me.

Giggling. Female giggling. A grin splitting between his cheeks, Bajie started his stroll in that direction. He crossed a red bridge and parted a group of bushes. Liu’s lovely daughters sat on and around a stone bench, resting in each other’s pretty arms, and flaunting their silk robes.

“Elder Zhu,” the seventh daughter said, a seductive edge to her tongue, “will you join us?”

“Yes, please join us,” the others said.

All self control lost, elder Zhu cried, “yes!” and all but jumped into their midst.

It was loud for a quiet night. The cudgel-turned-stick lay against the winding tree trunk. Wukong listened to the pig humiliate himself from his place in the treetops, one leg flat on the branch, the other raised, as he rested his back against bark. It stung, but very few things could garner a reaction from the Great Sage Equaling Heaven.

The crickets’ chirps melded into a monotonous hum, the night breeze weaved into distant giggling, and the chatter of frogs became one with echoing water. And still, the rain refused to fall. It was much cooler in the Liu family garden, but come morning, they would have to brave the heat once more.

For all his teasing, Wukong knew that baldy was a man of principle-- this challenge was overcome from the start. The twig snapped in his mouth. He spat it out.

He put a hand over his back, along the shoulder blade where that damn pig felt the need to press and press. The palm came away webbed with blood, dark and warm. Wukong grit his teeth, shed his top of it all- scarf, cloak, robes- and rolled the innermost cloth into a tourniquet. White, now faded yellow, it’d turn to red soon.

He reached behind and pressed it against both shoulders, squeezing the stretching holes. Those wounds hadn’t bled in a long time. Dots of blood grew along his collarbones, century-old scars reopening against the air. They had ached on that dry road and pricked at Liu’s mansion. And defying all odds, their blood gushed out when the moon rose, ensnaring him in a pain he hadn’t felt for a good five-hundred so years.

Wukong snorted. He couldn’t hand these clothes to Liu’s maids, lest Xuanzang think he committed murder in the night. He would wait until the bleeding stopped and clean himself in the family spring, and the clothes, he would wash himself. There was no reason to get rid of perfectly good clothes ( rags, clothes, same thing ).

That baldy gave him those clothes.

Wukong tilted his head and squinted at the moon. Tathagata, you’ve really got me this time . He shut his eyes, and not for the first time that night, wondered why the pipa bone ached so much.

Xuanzang sneezed himself awake. After brushing away the snot with a silk sleeve, he slowly but surely came to his senses. At first, he credited the disorientation to a trick of the light, then to the possibility that he was still asleep, then to the increasingly clear fact that he was no longer in Liu’s luxurious guestroom.

The porcelain pillow beneath his head was replaced with dirt. The intricate cuts of red wood? Gone. The wooden bed? Gone. The smooth silk sheets? Gone. The shining floorboards? Gone. Even the windows were gone. He was lying in the middle of a forest, covered in twigs and leaves, pulled from his sleep by a caterpillar that had tried to enter his nostril.

Flecks of morning light poured through the gaps between the healthy leaves above him. Liu’s garden remained, but her mansion had disappeared into the night. Xuanzang sat up and shook the dust from his head. His string of prayer beads lay on the coarse cassock in front of him, neatly folded atop the rest of his pilgriming clothes-- they were indeed washed. Once he was convinced no one was watching, the Tang priest changed, tucked Liu’s robes away for packing, and went on his way.

Looking for his disciples was not hard. All he had to do was follow the sound of Wujing’s wrinkled laughter, a dry, near-cough.

Xuanzang was busy tying his hat on when he stumbled into the disciples’ view. They were gathered around a tree, a white horse tethered to it by a piece of old rope. And hanging from above was Zhu Bajie in his most fetching human shape, stripped nude, eagle-spread, and tied down by thick coiling vines. He was blindfolded, gagged, and from what Xuanzang could hear, trying to sputter, “ Help! Help! Let me down! Master, boss! ”

“The look suits you!” Wujing said, tears streaming from his laughing face.

Wukong knelt by Friar Sand, gnawing a twig, and looking thoroughly unfazed by Bajie’s plight. “About time you woke up, baldy.”

Xuanzang: “Can’t you lot stay out of trouble for once? Now look at what you’ve gotten yourself into, Bajie!”

The monk sighed and approached the tree. “I’ve warned you all many, many times not to get into this kind of perverse trouble,” he chided, “but you never listen to your master. Do you know how much this hurts me? And where did you get this horse-”

He had more to tack onto the speech, but something caught his eye: pinned to the trunk was a piece of parchment, the character “Liu” carved into the spot above it. Xuanzang yanked the parchment out, the material rich against his fingertips. It was a letter.

Tang Sanzang, my Lord Buddha’s good disciple. Your resolve most impressed me the night before. I am now more confident than ever that Chen Xuanzang is the holy man who will go west for the holy scriptures. Please accept this horse as a reward for refusing my proposals and thus, passing my test.

Be wary of mortal temptations, for they can lead you astray.
Put down what still tangles your heart and cast them away.

Zhu Wuneng, your second disciple, is still the Marshal Tianpeng I remember. Do your best to steer him and the rest from their demonic ways. A student’s conduct reflects badly on the master, and just as they are yours to guide, you are mine to teach.

Remember these words, good Sanzang, from the former “Lady Liu”- Guanyin Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea.

“Good news? Grin any harder and you’ll disfigure yourself,” Wukong said.

Xuanzang: “You didn’t read this?”

“It’s yours. Who knows how long you’d complain if I looked at it.”

Above them, Bajie continued calling for help. Eager to share the letter, Xuanzang ran up to the monkey, threw an arm around him in a moment of forgotten boundaries, and all but shoved the Bodhisattva’s words in his face. Wujing peered down from behind them and said, “You knew it was her all along, didn’t you boss?”

Liu: Willow .

Wukong smirked. “It’s more fun if I don’t tell, no? Really ups the stakes.” He cast Bajie an upwards glance and unable to hold it back any longer, broke into a peal of cackling.

As Xuanzang carefully tucked the letter into his robes, he said, “Get your brother down and let’s be on our way. And if anyone asks about this-”

Wukong: “Nobody will.”

Xuanzang: “If anyone asks about this, we won’t say anything unless they really want to know. Because even though I’ve received a gift from the Goddess of Mercy for my incredible patience, determination, and faith, I won’t tell because-”

“Because you’re low key,” Wukong finished, keeping an eye roll at bay, “yeah, yeah, what else is new.”

Xuanzang pat him on the shoulder, grinned again, and said, “ We’re low key. All four of us.”

He turned to Bajie again, the disciple that failed to pass the Bodhisattva’s test on all accounts. “Wukong, get Wuneng down right now. Wujing, untether the horse- you won’t have to drag the wagon anymore.”

As Wujing went on to complete his orders, Wukong snapped his fingers and Bajie fell with a painful thud, face-first in the grass. Mouth still half-gagged, he cried, “Thank you boss, thank you!”

Xuanzang clapped his hands together, called the demons towards him again, and looked to the sky. “Ahmitabha! Thank you for your blessing, Bodhisattva! Xuanzang and his disciples are most grateful indeed!”

The four pilgrims kowtowed as the rain clouds gathered above.

Chapter Text

All their luggage went in the wagon and the Bodhisattva’s prized horse had no choice but to pull it along the way. It showed no signs of complaint, and as far as the pilgrims were concerned, the mare was strong enough to handle such a weight. It was a fine, tall horse, blessed with a delicate golden mane and a snow white coat. Xuanzang felt more pride for it than he did any of his disciples-- at least he could be sure this pilgrim would listen to him.

The Tang priest sat atop its cushioned saddle, reaching out to stroke the horse’s handsome face every now and then. The other three walked in sync with him, Wuneng and Wujing on the right, Wukong on the left. Entering woodland made the heat much more bearable, though the humidity seemed to increase with every step. Xuanzang wondered if some cursed piece of weather was following them, but dismissed the thought as soon as it came.

“We should name her,” he said suddenly.

“The horse? That’s a stupid idea,” Wujing said, honest as always.

Bajie: “No, no, Master’s right! Great pilgrims like us should have a great beast of burden. We should use a three-character name. Something noble, something refined, heavenly.”

“We naming the wagon too?” Wukong muttered.

“That’s an even dumber idea!” Wujing snapped.

Xuanzang: “Do you three have to turn everything into a fight? Haven’t I taught you to love each other? What kind of example are we setting for this lovely creature, this innocent, lovely, pure creature? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Wukong: “And there he goes again.”

Bajie: “Come on, boss. Let’s get back to the task at hand. You of all people should know some good names for her. You were the celestial horse groomer!”

There was no reply from Wukong. Xuanzang wasn’t sure if he ever expected to hear one. The wagon jumped a good inch from the ground, the horse whinnying in response as Wukong dashed from one side to the other. And then Bajie was lifted by the collar, the monkey towering over him, hands poised to strangle.

“Call me that again,” he growled, “ and you’re dead meat .”

The pig laughed nervously. “Oh, boss, you and your jokes!”

Enough was enough. Xuanzang reined in the horse, or attempted to, and patted its mane. Flushed with anger, he said, “Bad monkey, let him go! No more fighting on this trip. Next one who tries to start anything is answering to my Buddha’s Sodding Palm! Got that!?”

Bajie eased himself out of Wukong’s grip, dropped to his knees, and kowtowed with a burst of dramatic flare. “Understood, Master! From now on, this unworthy disciple will do his best to please you! Isn’t that right, boss?”

Wukong was still turned away from the monk, eyes downcast, outstretched arm remaining in midair. Bad monkey, bad monkey, always the bad monkey .

Xuanzang: “Wukong, do you understand? Or do I have to beat it into you?!”

The monkey lowered his arm at last, snapped the as-you-would cudgel over his shoulders once more, and sighed. “No,” he drawled, “I don’t.”

“You forced my hand,” Xuanzang warned. There was no reply. The Tang priest sucked in a breath, pressed his palms flat together, and sang.

“ My child, my child, why are you so naughty… ”

Wukong: “Didn’t you promise a beating!?”

With a frustrated cry, he dropped the cudgel, arms waving upwards of their own accord. And then he was dancing, twisting limbs and shaking from top to bottom. “Damn it, baldy!”

When the tune came to a halt, Wukong stumbled mid-step and fell face first into the earth, tongue meeting a mouthful of tasteless mulch. Watching his every move, Xuanzang said, “What did we learn, Wukong? I didn’t want to do this to you.”

Didn’t want to?! Wukong spat the mulch out, shook the dirt from his hair, and stood up to meet the monk’s eyes with a murderous glare. Xuanzang was sincere. And just like that, the anger dissipated into a lingering frustration. As it always did.

“No more in-fighting. Alright. No more.” He plucked a leaf from his tangled strands. “I promise, Master. But didn’t you promise not to sing that song?”

“Wuneng’s life was in danger. And I didn’t sing the whole song- only the first half. So I certainly kept my vow. Wukong, I only want what’s best for us all.”

Only Tang Sanzang could come up with such a mess of logical loopholes. “You’re really something, Master,” Wukong said, picking the cudgel up yet again.

Wujing: “So what are we naming the horse?”

Bajie: “Didn’t you say that was a stupid idea?”

Wujing: “What, I’m not allowed to know! Is that it?”

Bajie: “Stop putting words in other people’s mouths!”

The disciples never ceased to be one mess after another. Xuanzang cleared his throat and lifted the mare’s reins. “Wukong, Wuneng, Wujing- be quiet! You’re supposed to be brothers in arms! Now, I’ve decided on a name.”

Wukong: “Oh, this’ll be rich.”

Xuanzang was smart enough to know that this name would meet with little approval, but when it came to this name, he was immune to even heaven’s opinion. He beamed, lovesick and triumphant. “Duan. Her name is Duan.”

Wukong looked like he was about to collapse for the second time. Bajie opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only stoic Wujing managed to say, “That’s a terrible idea, Master.”

The Master was like a child seeing candy for the first time, and Duan was his shiny new toy. That was Wujing’s conclusion. Xuanzang and the horse were inseparable for the duration of their route. He dismissed each disciple’s offer to feed Duan so he could find patches of grass for her himself. He spoke to her like she was a human being, asking when she was thirsty or hungry, if she was too hot, if the demons were bothering her, as if his beloved had returned in equine form.

It was sincerely disturbing.

“It’s nightfall already,” Xuanzang said, upon seeing the dark clouds above.

Confused, Bajie looked up. “Huh. We haven’t been walking that long.”

Wukong: “Don’t be stupid. Those are storm clouds- it’s still noon.”

He sidled up to Xuanzang and Duan, grabbed a loose rein, and made to lead them onwards. The mare protested and Xuanzang leaned forward to soothe its neck. He glared at Wukong. “Give that back. Can’t you see she’s tired?”

The monk tried to pry the reins from Wukong’s hand, but the latter showed no signs of letting go. Bitterly, the monkey said, “She’s tired? Easy for you to say. All you’ve done is sit your ass on her all day.”

“I don’t like your tone, bad monkey. Give me the reins.”

“We stop now and we’ll never make it to the next town before dawn.”

“Wukong-”

“You want to get to the western paradise before your forties, don’t you?”

Xuanzang continued to pry, slipping off Duan in his effort to combat Wukong’s grip. With a yelp, he toppled over, feet twisting past the saddle, and landed head-first against Wukong’s chest as they both hit the ground. The horse had no response.

Fanning himself, Bajie came up beside Friar Sand and whispered, “Oh, the baldy’s really done it now.”

Wujing: “What an idiot.”

Bajie: “He’s really upset the boss this time. Ah, I can’t wait…”

Unaware of the whispers behind them, Xuanzang rolled off of Wukong, propped himself up by the elbows, and said through grit teeth, “Now look what you’ve done, bad monkey. Get up!”

Wukong turned his head to look at him. He rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who fell on me.”

“And I wouldn’t have fallen if you’d just listened to your master. Wukong, how will you enter society this way, hm? How will you-”

Damn baldy turning this into a life lesson again? Wukong let those words enter one ear and leave the other. It was just a string of ‘blah’ and ‘blahs,’ and how it was all the first disciple’s fault anyway. That baldy really could talk, not that it was news to him.

“Are you done?” the monkey said when Xuanzang finally shut up.

“Don’t talk back to your Master. Now get up. We’re going to make camp.”

He didn’t move a muscle. Xuanzang sighed and stood. He knew a cry for attention when he saw one, and for all his nonsense, that monkey loved his notice, for better or worse. If you want to be a naughty child, fine. I’ll be the adult here. Damn ape. Xuanzang dusted himself and made his way back to Duan.

A clap of thunder jolted him. Eyes wide, he automatically stuck his face against Duan’s. “There, there,” he said, more for himself than her, “just some bad weather. Don’t be afraid.”

Wukong: “We should go.”

Xuanzang: “Bajie, Wujing, make camp. I’m going to find somewhere for Duan to rest.”

That being said, he gave her one last stroke and moved to untie her from the wagon. He was considering putting wagon duty back on Wujing- Duan was the Bodhisattva’s gift after all and it’d be terrible of them to abuse her in such a way. But then again, Duan was strong. He led her away from the disciples with soft coos. Duan was strong, but a romantic at heart, temperamental maybe, but good under it all. Too good for him.

The pig watched Xuanzang fade from view with the horse. “What a let down,” he said to Wujing, “I was hoping for some bloodshed.”

And then to Bajie’s infinite amusement, Duan turned her head, without notice from the Tang priest. She gave a low neigh in Wukong’s direction, as if gloating at having won their master’s favor. That was it. Wukong popped up with a flourish, pure rage flashing over his face.

He composed his features and ever slowly, began to follow in Xuanzang’s steps. Bajie called out behind him: “Eldest brother, it’s just a horse!”

Wujing: “That’s right- no need to be so jealous! Master still loves you!”

Wukong: “Shut up or I’ll tear your heads off!”

Bajie: “Alright!”

The pig considered following Wukong to see what would happen next, but a blue hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. Wujing’s eyes darted towards where the monkey had been lying seconds before.

“You might see bloodshed after all,” he muttered, Wukong finally out of earshot.

Bajie looked down, eyes falling on the dark splotches in the grass, almost dirty enough to pass for red clay. Fresh blood.

Free from his disciples, Xuanzang led Duan into a small clearing, away from the rest of them. He put his head against hers. It was just her and him now, except in his dreams, she wasn’t a horse. He shut his eyes, imagining that woman’s face instead- much better. He wouldn’t dare let the others know. He wouldn’t even let the Bodhisattva know. He wouldn’t dare let them know how truly, painfully mortal he was.

Because for all his stubbornness, all his guilt, all his everloving holiness, he knew he’d trade it all for her in a heartbeat. If it meant he would never see the west, if he could start again, away from the monastery, away from all those demons and gods, he would . He would shower her with flowers and kisses and all those sweet words he never got to say. And all for what? So he could find enlightenment? So he could shield her from harm?

His fantasies never ended with her broken body in his arms, the blood smeared over her lips, the light leaving her bright eyes. And he never lay helpless as that demon tore her from him, made her disappear as he looked on. None of that happened. Instead, he kept his unruly hair and forgot every scripture he’d ever known. They moved into a quiet hillside village and had two little children. And he would hold her, alive and warm, each and every day.

“I’ll take you west,” he said, “I won’t push you away this time. Never again.”

Xuanzang pulled his face away, wiped the corner of his eye with a sleeve, and leaned against the mare’s body. That was a promise he intended to keep. And before he could be lost in thought again, a trickling sound entered his ears.

“Raining already?” he murmured, turning his head.

“Just taking a leak,” an all too familiar voice replied.

Behind the horse, Wukong was urinating every which way, trousers pulled down just enough to dangle that offensive object . Flabbergasted, Xuanzang could only stare until he heard an upset breath from Duan. Looking down, he saw the urine splash against the horse’s hoof.

Wukong: “Ah, that feels good.”

That stinking monkey. He had to ruin everything. Swallowing a cry of outrage, Xuanzang left Duan’s side, stomped up to Wukong, and pulled him away by the scarf.

“You had to come all the way here to pee? What’s wrong with you!?”

Wukong looked away innocently. “It’s a nice spot. Good for leaking.”

“How would you feel if Duan peed on you!?”

“Let her try!”

“Damn you- just, just stop!” Xuanzang shook him, Wukong’s unreadable face only fueling his frustration, “You damn macaque, you have to be sick in the head!”

You still can’t leave us be. You just had to come back in. Just let me put it behind us already. Damn you, damn you, damn you-

Wukong pulled up his pants. “Sick in the head, eh? I owe it all to you, Master.”

Xuanzang’s gaze left those cold eyes, drifting towards the golden circlet around the demon’s forehead. Duan’s ring. He’d put it over Wukong’s head himself, some sign of their new bond. The tightening mantra was on the tip of his tongue, but the monk could never bring himself to read it, not when so much rested on that band.

Wukong was still in his grip, as if baiting his breath for Xuanzang’s next comment. He thought of whipping him, of singing his nursery tunes, of smashing him against a tree, but that dejected face told him there would be no retaliation. That monkey rarely, if ever, fought back; even the outrageous act they kept on for the Biqiu minister had been by Xuanzang’s order and his alone.

His disciple stayed by choice. This, Xuanzang had to remind himself. He let go of Wukong’s clothing, sighed, and turned away: “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“I’m too tired for your tricks, Wukong. I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t care. But don’t take it out on the Bodhisattva’s gift.”

“Not going to hit me?” There was almost a disappointed edge in the monkey’s voice.

“No.”

“But we’re still not leaving?”

“No.”

Wukong said nothing. Awkwardly, master and disciple stared at one another for a good few moments until at last, the monkey nodded. Duan whinnied again when a low rumble rolled through the murky sky. Xuanzang was at her side in an instant, caressing her face with his hands and promising that all would be well. When he finished, he looked at his disciple, only to see Wukong’s back fading from view.

“Where are you off to now?” Xuanzang called, “I didn’t tell you to go!”

Wukong stopped. “Going to pee.” And moved on.

“Didn’t you just do that!?”

“I have a piss kink.”

“You’re not funny!”

Wukong had expected the baldy to cozy up with his new pet that night. Instead, Xuanzang had tethered “Duan” to a tree and left her to sleep alone. The Tang priest joined the rest of his disciples in their makeshift camp, having forced them to pitch a tent in case it rained in their sleep.

The distant sound of thunder mingled with Bajie’s snoring as the night stretched on and Wujing, as always, slept with open eyes. Such circumstances did little to bother Wukong, but he knew the monk was reluctant to sleep in such close proximity to them. And so, he placed himself between Xuanzang and the others as any good disciple would. The thought almost made him laugh.

His little episode that afternoon had only been to garner a reaction anyway. He would never admit it to Wujing’s face, but that fish was right- maybe there was an inkling of envy in him. He’d worked too hard and too long for even a scrap of appreciation from the Tang priest, and that horse had to come along and ruin it all. And it was all over a stupid name- Duan, it was just a name. That baldy was a true idiot if he thought throwing that name over a stupid animal would connect it any way to the real Duan, blessings be damned.

So maybe he was worried that he meant less than even a horse in the monk’s eyes. A little. It was a stupid thought- of course he meant less. And he very well knew the reason why. It kept him awake, as it always did.

He was especially tense tonight, half expecting the master to leave their tent and huddle by the horse, his new Duan. But Xuanzang never did.

The Tang priest latched onto him instead, as he was wont to do, unaware and blissfully asleep. Not a peep escaped the first disciple. Wukong held his breath, staring off into the dark. He didn’t turn around- he didn’t want to see that silly grin.

Xuanzang’s arms curled around him, groping at his chest, fondling the folds of cloth, torso pressing against his waist. And still, Wukong refused to move. Xuanzang hadn’t gone to the horse. He had stayed with him. A flood of relief washed over him, shamefully, reluctantly- he hated being that woman, and now he realized, he hated it more when someone else was that woman.

As Xuanzang’s embrace tightened, he wondered why for the umpteenth time. He had chalked it up to possessiveness at first, a need to cling to the man he called Master, but he knew that wasn’t the sole reason. He enjoyed being a layer closer to Xuanzang than his brothers, all things considered. He enjoyed the Tang priest’s presence, reveled in the knowledge that each morning, the monk would be there with his stupid antics. Once, he would never have entertained such thoughts, would never even have had the thought of that thought, and yet he lay now, wondering how true an attachment to his teacher could go; he'd had other teachers before.

“I love you,” Xuanzang said, “do you love me?”

Wukong gulped. He could hear the smile in the monk’s voice, the shining stars behind his closed lids, the joy of seeing his revived lover in distant dreams. It was disgusting.

And he was bleeding.**

He wanted to smack that egghead away. But he stayed rooted, gritting his teeth against the irritation in his shoulderblades. By a stroke of luck, he’d staunched the wounds at Liu’s mansion and they’d closed before the pilgrims left. Then the scuffle over Duan’s reins had gotten the best of him, and they gleefully reopened when he fell on his back. He was sure they’d closed again in the night, until Xuanzang pressed up against him, jolting the punctures again and again.

“Yes,” he said, quiet, voice foreign to even his own ears.

The monkey didn’t know if he was of less value than the Bodhisattva's horse. But he knew for certain that his blood was of less value than the monk's dopey smile. 

Wukong: “I love you.”

It rained the next day, much to Wujing’s relief and the chagrin of his companions. After a breakfast of congee, they undid the tent, loaded everything back into the wagon, and were on their way, accompanied by a light drizzle. Xuanzang was grateful for it at first, the chill of rain a refreshing break from the heat.

And gradually, it poured.

The Tang priest was soon soaked, Duan's coat dripping with water beneath him as she pulled the wagon through mud and fallen branches. On instinct, Wukong and the others had gathered behind the wagon, pushing it forward as the horse struggled to take their master over wet roads and broken wood.

“The water’s in my eyes,” Bajie complained, “I can't see a thing!”

“Just put on a bigger hat,” Wukong said, hood pulled all the way over.

Wujing: “Now this is what I call rain!”

Xuanzang started when a flash of lightning lit the sky, followed by an inevitable roar of thunder. Duan whinnied in panic, forelegs kicking up, a splash of mud flying onto Xuanzang’s face. The monk coughed, wiped the worst of it from his eyes, and threw his arms around Duan’s neck: “It’s alright! It’s just thunder- I’m here, we’re all here!”

Another crack of thunder made the horse jump, the wagon shaking in turn as the disciples stumbled into the mud.

“Master, keep her under control!” Wujing cried.

Xuanzang: “I’m trying!”

Wukong: “Try harder, baldy!”

Bajie desperately tried to push the mud off his robes. “Ruined, ruined,” he mumbled, adjusting his crooked hat. He gulped, tapped Wukong on the shoulder, and said, “Please, big brother, you were… protector of the horses- help Master.”

Wukong’s eyes told him he would have been dead any other day. Instead, the monkey said, “Fine. Get the wagon up,” and made his way to the front.

When he reached the Tang priest, Wukong grasped the reins from his hands and put a hand over Duan’s cheek. “Come on, you’ll be fine.”

Dumbstruck, Xuanzang watched as the mare heeded his disciple’s every order, their group moving past the patch of mud at last. Wukong really was the celestial stable boy, after all. And feeling rather petty, he recited in his head, Bimawen, bimawen .

“Master.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“What?”

Xuanzang shook his head, digging his hands into Duan’s mane instead. “Nothing. Go on.”

“Where to now?” Wukong gestured at a fork in the forest path. “Your choice. I don’t see much difference.”

A crack of thunder shook Duan again, forcing Wukong to wrap his arms around her head in a moment of reluctant protection. Seeing the horse in such a state softened Xuanzang’s heart.

“Duan can’t travel- we can’t travel like this. Wukong, find us a shelter and let’s wait the rain out.”

“Find shelter? Where?” That impatience again.

“Do what your Master says! If you can’t find one, build one- there’s wood all around!”

“Master, we should really go on-”

“We rest and that’s final.”

Wukong let loose a long sigh. He looked up at the Tang priest, finding nothing but determination in the monk’s eyes. Damn baldy . “Fine.” He shoved the reins back into Xuanzang’s hands and walked off.

“Master, I don’t think the rain will stop any time soon,” Bajie mused from his place under their thatched shelter, all four squatting underneath the makeshift construction of fallen branches, courtesy of Wukong’s handiwork.

Duan was curled by Xuanzang, head resting against his shoulder. “Just wait for it. Master’s never wronged you before.”

At that, all three stared at him in silence. The monk ignored them, opting to stroke Duan’s cheek instead. The rain pelted their shelter, shaking it left and right with wind and rumble and whatever else it had. Cold, Xuanzang huddled closer to the horse.

“This shelter won’t do,” he said, Wukong scoffing in response. “I’m going to see if we can find something better.”

“In this weather? Are you insane?” Wujing said. The monk shrugged.

“You stay here, I’ll be back soon,” Xuanzang whispered to Duan. And then he crawled out, turning to cry against the rainfall, “I didn’t tell you three to stay! Help me!”

Bajie wanted to scream at him, but he knew better than to fight the Master. So he clenched his fists and forced a smile to grace his masked face. “Coming, Master!” And one by one, the pilgrims wriggled out to join the Tang priest.

“Are you sure you want to leave the Bodhisattva’s blessing behind?” Wukong said, coming to stand by Xuanzang’s side, water slipping from the edge of his hood.

“Duan’s already been through such a fright,” Xuanzang said, “I wouldn’t be heartless enough to drag her through this weather.”

He turned to smile at the mare. “At least there, she’ll be safe from the storm.”

The disciples never had the chance to respond. As soon as the last word left Xuanzang’s mouth, a gust of whirlwind tore past them and spiraled through the rain, lifting branches and felling trees. The clouds above parted as lightning streaked downwards and split the shelter, a long figure snaking down from the sky, blue whiskers brushing rain as a mouth of sharp teeth gulped up the Bodhisattva’s mare in one swoop.

White scales, clawed limbs, gnarled horns, sleek hair, great sapphire eyes- a dragon had come and swallowed their horse, not a drop of blood spared. Xuanzang and his disciples could only stare, dumbstruck, into the dragon’s fierce eyes, as its shadow fell over and away from them, that mighty shape disappearing into the clouds once more.

When the dragon became a line in the sky, Xuanzang continued staring into the air, the rain reduced to a faint drizzle, storm clouds parting at last. He gaped. And gaped.

Wujing: “It killed Duan!”

Chapter Text

The pilgrims stood still for several seconds, eyeing one another in dead silence, too shocked to do more. Until at last, Xuanzang snapped: “What just happened!?”

“A dragon came,” Bajie explained, emphasizing each word, “and ate our horse.”

“In one bite,” Wujing added, “and flew away.”

The monk lifted a hand to touch the fading rain. The Bodhisattva’s blessing had disappeared just like that, and somehow he’d lost Duan all over again, quite literally.

“Master, don’t cry,” the fish said.

“I’m not crying.” Xuanzang’s hands roamed over his nonexistent hair, knuckles digging under his headscarf. “Am I?” The rain was indeed letting up, but his cheeks were wet and he was too stunned to dry them. A finger brushed against the corner of his eye, smearing the tears away. Wukong’s, uncharacteristically gentle.

“Quit sobbing, Master. It ruins your stupid face.”

The monkey pulled his hand back, clapped it on Xuanzang’s shoulder, and eyes locked ahead, said, “I’ll get you another horse.” With that, he left Xuanzang behind and beelined forward, ignoring the monk’s cries of “How?”

Bajie ran up to him, tugging at the monkey’s sleeve, Wujing catching up with quick steps.

The pig: “Are you going after it? Is that a good idea, boss?”

Wukong: “Pighead, stay here with Master. Wujing, let’s go.”

Wujing: “Go where?”

Wukong hopped up, grabbed the fish demon by his collar, and took to the skies, leaving Bajie behind with a cloud of dust as the pig continued calling for his boss. Thoroughly abandoned, Bajie turned back and tended the monk, hands resting on Xuanzang’s arm.

“Master, if the dragon eats them, it will just be you and me.”

“Wuneng, don’t speak of such things.”

“But Master, didn’t you see those teeth? I’ll be having nightmares for days.”

“Your brothers aren’t weaklings- of course they’ll make it back.”

“But Master, eldest brother, he’s-”

There was a look of genuine interest in Xuanzang’s eyes. Upon seeing it flash by, Bajie chose to bite his tongue- it would be more intriguing if he said nothing. He wanted to see how long that monkey could keep up this charade of health- much more interesting.

“What about your eldest brother?” the monk prodded.

“Eldest brother? Oh nothing. I just think he’s too confident.”

“Well, yes, that is concerning.”

“He’ll be happy to know how much you care, Master.”

At that, Xuanzang smiled, raising a hand to pat Bajie on the head. “Wuneng, I care about all three of you equally. How could I be your Master if I didn’t?”

The somersault cloud bobbed underneath them, Wujing slipping left and right in a struggle to keep a half-solid grip as Wukong maneuvered towards their target.

“Boss, do you see it?”

“Higher.”

Wujing turned his gaze upwards, a misty layer of clouds obstructing their view. He grit his teeth as the somersault cloud turned yet again, shooting vertically through the sky.

“We have to go higher!” the monkey said, tilting that head of golden fur.

Wujing knew what that shape of Wukong’s meant- there was going to be a fight, and deep down inside, the fish almost felt sorry for the dragon. He had no doubt that Wukong meant to tear it apart, probably scale by scale.

Wukong: “There he is.”

Wujing collected himself, raised his crescent moon blade, and looked past the monkey’s shoulder. The dragon slithered through the air, tail curled in defiance, head cloaked in clouds, all too ready to face the disciples of Tang Xuanzang. Wukong raised the cudgel, released from its wooden shell and proudly wrapped in green, red, and gold.

Wujing: “Give us the horse!”

The dragon burped. The fish grimaced- I did my best . And then, Wukong leapt. He threw himself at the dragon’s snout, one hand tangling itself in its whiskers, the other prepared to bash the cudgel into the beast’s head. With a roar, the dragon twisted back, horns narrowly missing his assailant’s arm. The monkey kicked himself off and spun forward onto the dragon’s sliding spine.

“Leaving already?” he said, “We’re just getting started!”

He tossed the cudgel into the air, stretched out both arms, and wound them around the dragon’s throat. Together, they spiraled violently in the air, thrusting through the sky until they became one with the misted horizon. The dragon buckled, managing to throw Wukong off, gathering its bearings just in time to see Wujing’s scythe fly at its face.

The dragon dodged and dove down, Wukong landing on the edge of its tail, cudgel back in hand. The monk’s spade returned and Wujing promptly left the somersault cloud to join his elder brother, just barely tumbling down the dragon’s mane. The beast roared again, flying headfirst towards the earth, curling as its tail slammed over a series of jagged trees. The disciples slipped off and rolled through the dirt, climbing to their feet as the dragon swerved and came at them with open jaws.

Wujing readied his hands to fight those jaws, and when that gigantic head finally descended, Wukong dashed in front. He shoved a hand into the dragon’s mouth as the jaws clamped down, wrapped his palm around a tooth, held, lifted- and whirled the beast a good three times before tossing it away like a strand of yarn. The dragon crashed over the woods with an earsplitting bellow, bringing down every tree in its defeated path.

Wukong shook the saliva off his fur, twirled his right arm for good measure, and eased back into human form, the only remnant of the fight a string of blood on his grazed palm. He pointed the cudgel in the fallen dragon’s direction: “Let’s go.”

“We skinning it, boss?”

“Course not. Baldy won’t stand for that.”

The dragon awoke to the sight of four boots. Wukong and Wujing loomed over him, cruel satisfaction evident in their devilish features. Sneering, the monkey crossed his arms and said, “Well, what do you think we should do with him, little brother?”

“Skin him.”

“Maybe sell the scales, eh? Buy Master a new cassock.”

“Or a new horse.”

“Oh, that’s right. We lost the Master’s horse. Go ahead, Friar Sand.”

Wujing obeyed, the crescent blade glinting with each slow, heavy step. Wukong watched nonchalantly, pursing his lips in anticipation for the pleas he knew would come. And as he expected, the dragon shrunk back. And shrunk. And. Shrunk.

“ No, big brother! Please! ”

The cracked plead was a far cry from the dragon’s awful roar. In place of the mighty beast was a figure that only came up to Wujing’s waist, endowed with features so tender he looked as if he’d barely passed his fourteenth summer. Screaming royalty from head to toe, the youth was garbed in silk robes patterned with flowers and white. He was adorned with baby skin, coal-blue eyes, and two jagged horns poking from a head of fair hair pinned up by butterfly clips. 

Wujing: “Big brother?”

The dragon-turned-boy rose and fell at Wukong’s feet, kowtowing as if his life depended on it, which it very much did. “Please! Spare me- I only wished to inspire your notice!”

“Don’t get fancy with us,” Wukong said, “just give me a reason not to kill you.”

“Big brother-”

“And don’t call me big brother.”

“But I must! You were Master’s best disciple and I too am his student!”

“Well, not anymore.” Wukong placed a foot on the boy’s shoulder, threatening to step down should the dragon upset him again. “Your little storm wasn’t funny, by the way.”

“I hadn’t meant to inconvenience you. But I was having such trouble reaching you these past days- it was as if you were ignoring me.”

“ No . What gave you that idea?”

“I knew for certain when we met in the forest, and you said, ‘go away or I’ll piss on you.’”

“So why didn’t you go away?”

“ We can save Master!”

The dragon cried out when Wukong stepped down, and still, he braced himself against the pain to speak on. “I know- I know you’re with that monk now, but you owe everything to our Master. Or at least, seventy-two things.” And step. “Ah! Please, Puti needs us!”

They locked eyes. Wukong felt his own tongue poking around in his mouth, a bitter taste rising within. Puti the Immortal was a name he hadn’t heard for over six centuries, and if he could help it, he would rather have kept it that way.

Wukong: “Bet the old man deserves it.”

The dragon: “But-!” And step. “Ah!”

Wukong: “I’ll save your Master. On one condition.”

The boy beamed, teary with joy. “Anything!”

“You know any other transformations?”

“I have four and a half.”

“Good enough. Turn into a horse and carry my Master to the western paradise.”

“Of course! Of course!”

Wukong removed his foot and the boy immediately fell over, grunting as he rubbed his sore shoulder. Having observed the whole thing, Wujing finally had the chance to ask, “So who are you?”

The dragon stood up on shaky legs, dusted himself, and solemnly said, “Prince Ao Lie, third heir of the western sea.”

“Oh look, they’re back!” Bajie said with mock joy.

Xuanzang got up from his place on the ground, held a hand over his eyes, and squinted in the distance. He could make out the growing shapes of Wukong and Wujing, but there was a third figure in between, looking as if it was being dragged by both arms. He hoped this wasn’t another part of the monkey’s schemes.

When the pilgrims congregated once more, Wukong threw his prisoner at Xuanzang’s feet. The newcomer slammed against the ground, recovered, and immediately kowtowed before the Tang priest.

“Who is this?” Xuanzang asked.

Wukong: “The new horse.”

Bajie: “That’s not a horse.”

If anything, the intruder looked like a pubescent aristocrat that had been manhandled and abducted by Xuanzang’s delinquent pupils. He sensed that wasn’t the case, else the boy’s people would have been out for the monk’s blood by now. Bracing himself for the worst, Xuanzang bent and bid the boy to rise, momentarily shocked by the horns protruding from the latter’s head.

“Venerable elder, his third highness, Prince Ao Lie of the Western Sea kingdom is at your service. In turn, I only need the Great Sage’s assistance in saving my Master, Puti the Immortal.”

Bajie perked up upon hearing that statement. The pig waltzed up to the prince and asked, humbly, “Your highness, does this mean your father, the Western dragon king will help us on our quest?”

“My father wants nothing to do with me.”

And thus, the pig’s enthusiasm faded.

“And you still have the gall to call yourself ‘prince,’ you horse murderer?” Huffing, Bajie left Ao Lie to be scrutinized by the master.

“So you’re the one that… ate our horse?” Xuanzang said awkwardly, the boy nodding as if Duan’s death meant nothing.

Xuanzang: “That horse meant a lot to us.” A lot to me .

Ao Lie stared blankly at him.

Wukong: “He gets your point, Master. If you’re trying to guilt trip him, it won’t work.”

Ao Lie: “I only wanted big brother’s attention.”

Xuanzang: “So you wanted to lure us out?”

Ao Lie balked at the accusation, but had no immediate retort.

“Don’t let him join us,” Bajie said, “he’s much too manipulative!”

“And you’re not?” Wukong muttered.

Xuanzang shushed them both and said, “Then, your highness, what’s this business about you being our new horse? Are you good at transformations?”

“Of course! I trained under the same great celestial as big brother!”

“Why don’t you show baldy here three or four moves,” Wukong said, with no small hint of scorn.

Bajie: “Great idea, boss! Let’s see what he can do first-”

Wujing: “Besides eating horses.”

Ao Lie: “I have four and a half transformations.”

He scanned the pilgrims, looking from head to head before nodding and pushing his hands together. He swept his right foot in a circle and ran a hand over his hair, pulling a handful of locks down and furling it over his upper lip.

“Change!” he said, “a man with a mustache.”

Ao Lie put his hair back up, swept the foot again and flipped his palms. “Change… in height.” He stood on his tiptoes. Satisfied, the prince flattened his soles once more, pointed at himself, and said, “Change- my human form.”

He looked to the pilgrims, kowtowed, and delivered a flamboyant bow. Xuanzang didn’t know how to react, rendered speechless by Ao Lie’s performance. Bajie was equally dumbstruck, slowly shaking his head at what he just witnessed.

“His transformations are so great we can’t even see them,” Wujing said in awe.

Wukong: “He’s Puti’s disciple alright.”

The Tang priest cast Wukong a sideways glance and returned to Ao Lie. He would have to ask Wukong about this Puti some other time. For now, he had seen enough of the dragon’s transformations and he would rather not find out what the last of the “four and a half” was.

Xuanzang: “Your highness, that was a grand performance. We do thank you. With your skill, are you really willing to become a beast of burden?”

“Of course. Ao Lie will compensate you, venerable elder,” the boy said.

“It’s not a matter of compensation. That horse was one of us.”

“I can be one of you too.”

Xuanzang repeated himself, pushing for a sign of apology, regret, guilt, anything that could tell him the dragon prince understood the gravity of his crime. There was none.

Xuanzang forced his boiling feelings to simmer away- begrudging this boy would be no use to their journey and neither would pinning the blame on that monkey. He took Ao Lie’s hands in his own, tempered his voice, and said, “That horse was a gift from Guanyin Bodhisattva. You’ll have to work very hard to redeem yourself, do you understand, your highness?”

Wujing: “He made it storm!”

Xuanzang: “You’ll have to work very, very hard.”

Ao Lie looked on the verge of tears. Xuanzang could feel his heart soften, but that did nothing to erase the dragon’s crime- if he was to take a new disciple, he had to guide him with a stern hand. Ao Lie nodded, pressed the Tang priest’s hands against his face, and said, “I understand, venerable elder. You’re so kind. It makes me feel-”

The prince’s grip tightened and Xuanzang heard himself gasp in pain.

“-Guilty.”

Ao Lie flashed him a sweet smile, gathered the priest into his thin arms, and with surprising strength, twirled in the opposite way, fine robes flowing. He ran. By the time Xuanzang realized what happened, he was already helpless in the dragon’s grip. He did the only thing he could: open his mouth and scream.

The trees turned into zipping lines as the monk struggled to crane his neck, miraculously managing to control his yells and holler, “Wukong! Bajie! Wujing! Wukong, save me!”

“Scream all you want, egghead,” the boy laughed, “we’ll be in the western sea soon enough. You’re all so gullible!”

“Why are you doing this?!” Xuanzang said.

“I won’t need anyone to protect me from Father now!”

“What does that have to do with me?!”

“I’m going to bring him the flesh of the Tang priest! He’ll have to take me back!”

With what little ability he had to think in such circumstances, Xuanzang asked, “What- why were you cast out!?”

“None of your business! But I’ll regain his favor when he eats you- he’ll be immortal now, more powerful than ever- Ha- all thanks to me!”

Xuanzang saw the crazed look in Ao Lie’s eyes, pupils dilated over white, confirmation that the dragon prince meant every word he said. Since the disciples hadn’t arrived yet, the monk supposed they were taking their time, which could only mean one of two things- they wanted him to die or they believed him capable of handling the dragon. Truth be told, the monk suspected it was both. And if they were lucky, their master would die taking out the prince.

Still wrapping his head around how someone who looked as benign as Ao Lie could be so unashamedly wicked, Xuanzang raised his arms, a whispered chant on his lips.

Bajie whistled in amusement. “My, that boy has guts. Guess the dragon clan does act differently than the rest of us.”

“What a brat,” Wujing growled.

Wukong framed his eyes with a bandaged hand and looked in the direction where Ao Lie had carried their humble master off.

“Boss, should we go after them?” Bajie said.

Wukong: “No. That brat’s too cocky- I think we should let Master teach him a lesson.”

Bajie: "But what if the baldy dies?"

Wukong: "Eh, too bad."

Wujing: “Look!”

And sure enough, a golden hand of grand proportions rose over the horizon.

Ao Lie was plucked away from the Tang priest, kicking and screaming as the Buddha’s Sodding Palm held his body in place, fingers poised to crush his spine. To his horror, the more he struggled, the more they clenched, until eventually, he was left fighting for breath.

Xuanzang sat cross-legged before him, hands clapped together in prayer, a hint of smugness in his eyes as he looked upon the dragon prince.

“I don’t like to use this technique,” the monk said, “but you left me no choice. How old are you anyway?”

“I turned three hundred last week!”

“Good. I’d feel guilty doing this to minors.” The hand tightened again as Ao Lie gasped.

“Why did your father cast you out?” Xuanzang asked calmly.

“Are you interviewing me, egghead!?” Ao Lie snapped.

“Well?”

The prince bit his lip, then said, “I broke his prized pearl… by accident .”

Xuanzang: “Now then, why don’t you tell me what this Puti has to do with any of this.”

The fingers loosened slightly enough for Ao Lie to speak. He coughed and spat, “You- you egghead!” And tighten. “I mean, venerable elder- forgive me!”

Ao Lie: “After I ran away from the palace, I had to protect myself because Father wanted my head and... And it’s none of your business!”

Xuanzang raised a hand, the Sodding Palm moving in unison. Observing in terror, Ao Lie cried, “I’ll speak! I’ll speak! I needed to learn magic, how to fight… a celestial named Puti took me in. He- he was a wanted man, like me. Only he could protect me from Father. But not long ago, he was arrested for crimes against heaven.”

“And why did you think we would help save your master?”

“Not you!” Ao Lie juggled for the right words. “The Great Sage Equaling Heaven learned everything from Master- I thought he’d help for sure. I knew he was accompanying Tang Sanzang to the western paradise so I followed you lot here. But he wouldn’t help me unless I replaced your stupid horse.”

“Her name was Duan.”

“Your stupid Duan! And they led me straight to you- I wouldn’t need Master anymore if I could capture you. I saw the chance and I took it, like any filial son would. If you had any kindness in your heart, you’d come with me willingly!”

“Ao Lie,” Xuanzang said gently, “what you’re doing is selfish and your father would know. Why not keep your promise instead? Come with us and Wukong will help save your master. You’ll surely make everyone proud.”

“But- but-”

“I won’t resent you for what you did. We’ll start afresh, how about that?”

His words stung. Ao Lie blinked away flowing tears, reminded of the unforgiving helplessness he felt before his father, his brothers, his Master, everything that was more than him in heaven, earth, and sea. Yet the monk’s eyes were so forgiving- warm, open, fatherly, judgmental . He could not fight them. Under that spoiled temperament, those pointed horns, that scaled body, Prince Ao Lie was but a whiny child.

This, Xuanzang knew, and this, he took to his advantage.

“Come with us, Ao Lie. Be our little white dragon.”

The Sodding Palm began to fade, slowly and gracefully, until there was nothing holding Ao Lie save a sprinkle of stardust. He fell to his knees, cheeks tear-streaked, and arms stretched expectantly. Xuanzang stood up, walked over, and stooped to embrace the young prince. Numb from top to bottom, Ao Lie reluctantly buried his head in Xuanzang’s shoulder.

“Master,” he said, choked. I hate you, egghead.

Xuanzang returned within the hour, a white pony in toll, only half the size of what Duan had been. The disciples applauded in support of the Master’s triumph. Bajie inspected their new horse when it came to a stop- white coat, pale mane, a horn behind each ear.

Xuanzang: “From this day forth, Prince Ao Lie is a member of the Buddhist way. He’ll be your new brother, Xiao Bailong. It has a nice ring to it, right?”

Wujing: “It sounds stupid.”

“You were no match for our Master, were you?” the pig taunted.

The pony snorted in his face. Bajie returned the glare as his brothers joined them.

Wukong grinned. “What did I tell you, Master? Didn’t we get you a new horse?”

Xuanzang put an arm around the monkey’s neck. “You don’t get this credit- you three abandoned me. Good thing I had the Buddha’s Sodding Palm.” He smiled. “Which I’m always low key about.”

Wukong pressed him on the back, a sign of mock congratulations. “Dozing off, baldy?”

He really was a little out of breath. Xuanzang kept the secrets of the Sodding Palm to himself, mostly, but even the mild technique he’d used on Ao Lie was anything if not draining. He let the monkey lead him away by the elbow, Bailong following dutifully behind, no doubt traumatized by the buddha’s golden hand.

“It’s all your fault,” the monk said, “you didn’t come when I called you. And now I have to turn it in early.”

“Fine, fine, it’s all my fault.”

Xuanzang had more to say when he caught sight of the hand on his sleeve, a strip of cloth tied around the palm. “Are you hurt?”

“What-” The first disciple glanced at the wrapped cloth. “-Oh. No, just a scratch.”

Wukong patted him once more on the back before he took Ao Lie’s reins and turned to the demons with an order of, “Make camp!”

There was another question on the tip of the monk’s tongue, but he sensed that Wukong was in no mood to answer. Just a scratch . That monkey never needed bandages before. Xuanzang pushed these creeping insecurities to the back of his mind; his disciples could take care of themselves, and for now, he would simply revel in having gained a new student, royalty, no less. He would celebrate now because there was no doubt in the monk’s mind that the dragon prince was plotting his murder at the very moment, yet another wicked disciple he would have to win over.

And sure enough, the pony was indeed imagining the various ways he could split that bald head open.

Wukong looked over his palm in the moonlight, the Tang priest snoring lightly in his blankets a hair’s breadth away, thankfully dreamless. The monkey had opted not to sleep, not when Ao Lie was faking unconsciousness so near their Master. And under his silent orders, Bajie and Wujing did the same, all three able to see past the boy’s plans. Because they had all tried the same thing before: murdering the monk in his sleep.

In the beginning, Bajie and Wujing had been stopped by Wukong at every turn, and in turn, Wukong had been stopped by the memory of the monk’s Sodding Palm, until their habits gave way to simple reflex. Protecting the priest in his sleep was as natural as chewing the twig in his mouth- anything else, Wukong gave no more thought.

The twig was rough against his lips, a good tool for biting. And the hand, stripped of its soaked bandage, was almost scabbed over. The cut from Ao Lie’s tooth had been deep, but the bleeding should have stopped within the hour, if not immediately- he never bled easily. Wukong touched the wound with the other hand, marveling at how much it pricked. In the dim light, he could see bits of fresh red under the near-scab. He wondered if his shoulderblades looked that way too.

A movement caught his eye. Wukong turned his head and shot a glare directly at Ao Lie, the prince having crawled over to Xuanzang’s side.

Ao Lie: “Big brother, you’re awake…”

Wukong: “Hoping to get a clear shot, boy?”

Ao Lie looked nervously about. The Tang priest was sound asleep and he knew there was an explicit kill-or-be-killed animosity between himself and the other two disciples. Sun Wukong was his only ally in this camp, and even that sentiment was stretching his luck. The dragon’s fingers curled in, the nails he’d planned to use on the monk’s throat retreating in defeat.

“No… I just had nightmares. I wanted Master to hug me.”

“Baldy’s asleep.” Wukong stopped his eyes from rolling back- the prince was a terrible liar. “Come here, I’ll hug you.”

“No, that’s alright…”

“Come. Here.”

Reluctantly, Ao Lie crawled around Xuanzang’s head and lay down by Wukong’s side, the monkey now between him and the target. Wukong put an arm around him and pressed his head against a solid chest. Tightly.

“Big brother… I can’t move.”

“Didn’t you want a hug?” Wukong said, “I’m hugging you.”

The monkey said no more, staring off into space, and paralyzed, Ao Lie had no choice but to lie still. Xuanzang remained very much alive through the night, plaguing the dragon prince with light snores turned heavy as he entered an even deeper sleep.

In his bed of leaves, Bajie looked on. “Serves the kid right.”

From his bed of dirt, Wujing replied, “The boss’ll have his head before he touches baldy.”

Bajie: “A pity.”

Chapter Text

Ao Lie was in no hurry to become a horse again, and even less excited at the prospect of carrying the Tang priest on his back. The Great Sage had “freed” him in the morning and sent him off to collect firewood. Not daring to refuse, he did as he was told. When Ao Lie returned with fallen branches in hand, the monk was wide awake and clearing their camp with the other two, Wukong having left to urinate.

“Little brother,” Bajie said, busy powdering his shiny face, “help Friar Sand with breakfast.”

Wujing: “I don’t want his help!”

Ao Lie stuck up his nose. “You have no right to order me around anyway.” And refusing to do any work now that Wukong was out of earshot, the dragon sat upon a tree stump and spent the remainder of the morning brooding.

The monk had proven a much tougher opponent than he first thought; of all he knew about Tang Sanzang, his Buddha’s Sodding Palm was not widespread knowledge. He could tell Marshal Tianpeng was a dandy, but Zhu Wuneng seemed so full of himself that he suspected the former Marshal could hold his own in a fight. The stoic General Juanlian was at least seven heads tall and his chain of skulls told Ao Lie not to reckon with him, as did those piercing eyes. Even so, Ao Lie was sure he could claw and scratch his way through both if need be.

And these thoughts didn’t even take into account what the Great Sage was capable of- in fact, Ao Lie was still sore from his thrashing- his only potential ally here.

Ao Lie feared the monkey most, and yet every strategy he conjured involved gaining Wukong’s favor, because fighting him was not an option if he wished to live. In thought, the prince put a thumb under his chin. If he could somehow turn the first disciple against that monk, the fish and the pig would be of little threat, and Ao Lie would soon be free. Xuanzang had a few tricks up his sleeve, but Ao Lie believed he could be outsmarted.  Given that monkey’s ego, he would no doubt want a cut of the Tang priest’s meat, and in such a case, Ao Lie would have to find a way to split Xuanzang’s flesh between Father and the Great Sage.

But if he allied himself with Sun Wukong, the King of the Western Sea would have to concede to their every whim, with or without the Tang priest’s corpse. The question, then, would be how to turn the disciples on one another. If he could accomplish this stage of his plan, the rest would fall into place, and his father would have to abdicate the throne to him, King Ao Lie. Inadvertently, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“Enjoying the dawn?” Xuanzang asked, noting the smile on Ao Lie’s face.

The prince started and looked away in embarrassment. “Yes, very much.”

“We can look at it together,” the monk said, “come join us. Wujing made bamboo soup this morning.”

“Big brother isn’t back yet.”

“He’ll return soon enough and we’ve filled his bowl already.”

Putting on a saccharine smile, Ao Lie nodded and jumped off his stump to join the pilgrims. A worn blanket about his shoulders, Xuanzang looked much more refreshed in the morning, eyes open fully, and a healthy tint to his skin. Cross legged, the monk sipped at the bowl in his hands. Forming a semi-circle beside him, Bajie and Wujing did the same with much louder slurps, and all three  indeed looked like a group of beggars, save Bajie and his opera player’s face. Ao Lie swallowed his disdain, took his place by Xuanzang, and picked up his bowl. The smile fell.

It was a colorless concoction that smelled of burnt wood, bamboo chutes and grains of rice floating among what looked like flecks of dirt, in a clay bowl that looked as if it’d seen better days. Even Duan the horse made for a better meal. Staring down at Wujing’s wretched soup, Ao Lie couldn’t help but remember the banquets in his father’s palace- golden dishes of lobster and salmon, threaded noodles and white rice, bean curd desserts and fruits aplenty, the finest cuisine from the deepest corner of each sea.

“Something the matter, Xiao Bailong?” Xuanzang said, “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Wujing said, “eat your damn breakfast.”

Bajie: “If he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it, Master.”

Wujing: “Why wouldn’t he want it? Why don’t you want it, brat?”

Why didn’t he want it? He hadn’t slept a wink last night. He was still bruised from the monkey’s beating. He still ached from the monk’s Sodding Palm. He had his plans dashed at every turn. He was reduced to less than even a mortal man, a voiceless horse. He had no home or friend. He had had enough.

Wujing’s tone and the sight of that dishwash broke his temper at last. Ao Lie cast the bowl aside- and smash!- its contents spilling over grass as Xuanzang cried, “Hey!”

“Are you pilgrims or beggars?” the dragon said, “this is inedible!”

Wujing shot up with grit teeth, shadow eclipsing Ao Lie as he reached his full height, the rage evident in his bulging eyes.

Xuanzang: “Wujing, calm down!”

Bajie: “Oh, you’ve done it now, your highness , you’ve done it now.”

Xuanzang set his bowl down and rose, trying in vain to step between his disciples, but by then, Wujing had grabbed the folds of Ao Lie’s robe and yanked him clean off the ground.

Teeth bared, the fish demon hissed, “You insulted me.”

Defiant, Ao Lie glared back. “Then learn to cook better.”

Bajie gasped audibly behind Wujing, all but willing the fish to explode. Just as he hoped, Friar Sand roared and prepared to throw Ao Lie into the sky, the latter about to shift into scales and fangs, talons and all. The Tang priest parted his lips to reason with them, a thousand words rolling together in his throat and only one coming out, “Wujing-”

Wukong: “Break it up.”

Ao Lie instinctively turned his head to the side, the Great Sage stepping into view, bits of sunlight catching in his nest of hair. It was then that Ao Lie noticed there was little to distinguish between the King of Flower Fruit Mountain and some common thug. And as that strange tug of disappointment poked within him, the fish said, “He insulted me.”

“It’s true, boss,” Bajie said, “just look at that mess on the ground.”

Wujing: “He insulted me!”

The demon pulled Ao Lie in and lifted him over his head, as if ready to snap the boy in two. In an instant, Wukong was there, head under Wujing’s chin, hands over his biceps, Ao Lie petrified above. Wujing struggled to move, but found himself frozen in the monkey’s iron grip.

Wukong: “Then grow thicker skin!”

He buckled down, thrusting Wujing’s weight forward as Ao Lie slipped out of the fish’s hands, tumbling painfully through the dirt until he was stopped by Bajie’s heavy foot. Dizzy, the boy propped himself up, fine clothes now a mess of dust and dirt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wukong wrestle his way out of Wujing’s arms, the fish taking out the remainder of his rage on their eldest brother. After a number of hits that should have sent Wukong’s head rolling into thin air, the monkey grabbed hold of Wujing’s fists, swung his legs, and struck his chest.

Off balance, Friar Sand fell back as Wukong descended, snarled, and yanked him up by the ear. The pain forced Wujing to bend over two heads as the monkey led him to Xuanzang’s side once more. Ignoring Wujing’s protests, Wukong shoved him into a seat and released that swollen ear.

“Just stay there and eat, asshole!” the monkey said.

“You’re the asshole! He insulted me!”

Wukong’s retort was cut off by Xuanzang, the monk coming to put both hands on Wujing’s shoulders. “Let’s just have breakfast in peace! Why begrudge your brothers so, Wujing? We have to teach your little brother our ways.”

“This,” Wukong said, gesturing at the spot of soil their scuffle had ruined, “is our way.”

“You know what I mean,” the master said, “I always strive to teach you humility and kindness. You three, I mean, four, ought to be kinder to each other. How else will we survive on our journey?”

Wukong: “I thought your Buddha’s Sodding Palm had us covered.”

“Do I seem like the type of person who would use it over every minor thing?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Xuanzang sighed, massaging Wujing in an attempt to soothe the third disciple’s temper. “Now, Wujing, what do you have to say to Xiao Bailong?”

Wujing looked Ao Lie square in the eye: “Fuck you, asshole.”

Xuanzang: “Maybe we should try a different approach. Xiao Bailong, do apologize to your big brother.”

Ao Lie: “I’m not apologizing to some fish. Where does he stand in the ocean? And where do I stand? Besides, he attacked me first!”

Bajie helped Ao Lie to his feet, patted the dragon on the head with false affection, and said, “Now, now, little brother. Just say you’re sorry or it’s going to be a very bad outlook for you.”

“Please, just apologize to Wujing and we can put this behind us. Master will find you something better to eat later,” Xuanzang coaxed.

Sickened by his tone, Ao Lie kept his mouth shut in a tight line. Then Wukong pulled him forward by the horn, roughly pushed him in the monk’s direction, and growled, “Do as Master says.” Or else .

Ao Lie looked at Wujing: “I’m sorry, elder brother.”

Wujing: “That won’t bring the soup back!”

Wukong let the prince go and scoffed. “You’re still hung on that? Fine, he’ll drink your damn soup.”

Wujing: “There isn’t any left!”

Wukong: “There’s one right here, isn’t there?”

He trudged past the other pilgrims, eyed the bowl they’d set aside for him, and knelt. Wukong scooped up the latter, turned once more to Ao Lie, and forced the bowl into his hands.

“Have your breakfast and we’ll be on our way,” he said, before plopping himself by Xuanzang, arms folded behind his head.

Ao Lie held the bowl awkwardly, unsure if it was a good idea to take the monkey’s meal, offered or not, but the monk’s expectant look told him he had little choice. Hiding his grimace, Ao Lie raised the bowl to his lips and drank.

It tasted terrible.

Bajie came up behind Wukong, and unable to mask his irritation, said, “Boss, you’re far too good to that brat. It almost makes us think you favor him-”

Xuanzang: “Bajie, leave your elder brother alone. I think he did a great thing. You see, Wukong? This is the way I was talking about. You should all open your hearts to Xiao Bailong and teach him our ways.”

Ao Lie saw their eldest brother roll his eyes before delivering a half-hearted, “Uh-huh.” And of course, egghead doesn’t see .

“So how’s your soup, Xiao Bailong?” Xuanzang asked, a bright smile on his waste of a pretty face.

“It’s… good,” Ao Lie lied.

“Amitabha,” the priest said, pressing his palms together, “now let’s all dine in peace.”

“Yes, let’s!” Bajie readily agreed, like a true sycophant.

Wujing continued to silently sulk as Ao Lie swallowed a bamboo chute whole. The dragon prince had never hated anyone as much as he did these four.

“If with a pure mind, a person speaks or acts, happiness follows them like a never departing shadow.”

“Speak only endearing speech, speech that is welcomed. Speech, when it brings no evil to others, is a pleasant thing.”

“Whatever is not yours, let go of it.”

“Boundless love-”

Wukong: “Master, stop preaching. I think Bailong’ll die at this rate.”

Eyelids heavy, Ao Lie was indeed half asleep, horse hooves moving at random, horns drooping, so drowsy the monk’s words were but a faint buzz in his ears. Ever since the Tang priest placed himself upon Ao Lie’s bridle and resumed the journey west, his mouth had never stopped, as if he was convinced he could change the dragon’s rotten nature by hitting him over the head with Buddhist teachings.

A touch of pink coloring his cheeks, the monk coughed and said, “Well, I suppose he’s heard enough at this point… disciples, how long until sunset?”

“Beats me,” Wujing grunted, head forward and back slanted as he dragged their wagon along, the dragon prince having refused to take it on.

After breakfast, Xuanzang had ordered his disciples to pack and hit the road, and when Ao Lie transformed into his white horse, Bajie had tried to tether their wagon to his waist. The next scuffle resulted in their luggage spilling every which way, until Wujing, in a rage, upturned that wagon and laid all blame in the world on the Tang priest. And vowing murder, Wukong took it upon himself to beat all three of his brothers with the as-you-would golden cudgel, and would have succeeded if not for Xuanzang’s timely nursery rhyme.

And in an effort to do away with the sour mood that had overtaken them all, Xuanzang let Wukong lead the group in his stead, told Bailong he was free from every duty save horseback riding, rewarded Bajie with a portion of alms, and promised Wujing everyone’s water should he want it. All these promises, Xuanzang had no intention of  keeping. He knew the disciples would forget once their tantrums blew over and a new argument came along, whereupon the monk would repeat the same promises, again, and again, if only to unite their band of kill-or-be-killed holy men.

And thus, the day was saved by the Great and insightful Xuanzang of Tang.

“Ah, it’s such a beautiful day,” Bajie said, “look, Master! Trees as green as jade, from under which the river, runs, sun in sky, and-”

“Your poem sucks,” Wujing said.

“Oh, you can do better, fishhead?”

Wujing: “The sun shines, like the humble Master’s bald head.”

Wukong: “And Zhu Bajie, the poet, an asshole.”

Their poem finished, two demons exchanged snickers as Bajie put a hand over his heart in offense. He shook his head and wiping away nonexistent tears, cried, “Oh Master! You see how coarse we’ve become, how uncultured from these days on the road!”

“Wukong, Wujing, stop teasing Wuneng- there’s nothing wrong with appreciating the arts,” Xuanzang chided, “and none of you answered my question.”

“You want that in verse or prose, baldy?” the monkey said, a sneer in his tone.

Xuanzang scowled. “Well, since you asked so nicely, you best give it to me in verse. But it seems Bajie’s the only one who can write poems around here.”

His mouth pulled into a smug smile when he saw the wide-eyed look of surprise on Wukong’s sour face, the demon thoroughly taken aback by Xuanzang’s retort. Wujing’s snickering now directed itself at Wukong, Bajie seized the chance to say, “If you need help with your verse, I’m right here, boss-”

“Shut up,” Wukong grumbled, “Master wants a poem? I’ll give him one.”

Bajie: “I’m not sure if that’s your strong suit-”

Wukong: “The sun is high as noon long past, from here to dusk the hour is short, and he who wanders will soon see dark.”

The pig delivered a bout of melodramatic applause. “Eldest brother, that was wonderful! You’re full of surprises- it was beautiful!”

“Eh, it was alright,” Wujing said truthfully, having expected much worse from the boss, though he remained unimpressed.

“I have to hand it you, monkey, that was actually passable. Now do you see the importance of the arts?” Xuanzang said, still caught in his moment of satisfaction, and stretching a hand to stroke Ao Lie behind the ear, he asked, “What did you think, Xiao Bailong?”

The pony made a sound halfway between a whinny and a roar, giving Xuanzang such a fright he nearly yelped. The prince did not take kindly to being ignored and he was feeling very much cast aside while the other four bantered on, just as his blood brothers had as they conspired behind his back.

“Easy,” Xuanzang said, “as your mentor, I have to divide my attention evenly. You know I can’t give it all to you, Xiao Bailong.”

Then the Tang priest grinned. “But we’ll be stopping again soon, so for the time being, I can recite scriptures for you again. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

Ao Lie whimpered and Xuanzang took that as a sign of approval. Fearing the prince would try to buckle and dash the priest’s brains on the ground, Wukong grasped his reins and took his place in front of the Master’s horse.

From the rear, Bajie said, “Oh, that does sound like fun! I’m sure Xiao Bailong would love that. The longer, the better, Master, until he can’t sleep without hearing your voice. How blessed he is.”

At the pig’s heels, Wujing huffed, glared at Xuanzang’s head, and said, “Don’t bother, Master- brat won’t learn a thing!”

Wukong: “I think Friar Sand needs it more than dragon boy, huh, Master?”

Xuanzang: “That’s it! You’re all going to copy the heart sutra tonight, two hundred times by hand, and no magic.”

And thus, one before the other, the pilgrims traveled on, Sun Wukong ahead of the White Dragon Horse, Tang Sanzang atop his steed, Zhu Bajie following with his nine-toothed rake, and Sha Wujing at the very end, crescent monk’s spade and wheeled wagon in tow. The as-you-would golden cudgel dragged along as wind blew and sun slashed, until the sky bled red and night washed over.

And as the disciples had hoped, Xuanzang forgot completely about their punishment.

Moonfield Village was a quaint little place Xuanzang had hoped to stay for the night. It had been weeks since they’d last stayed indoors and the thought of sleeping with a roof over his head was not unwelcome. So when Wukong’s voice woke him from a half-slumber on Ao Lie’s back, he instantly stirred to hear, “Master, let’s stop here.”

It was not a large town, this he could tell, and measured roughly twice the size of the illusion that had been Rivermouth. Its wooden buildings were compact and bunched, not a sign of lantern light in the vicinity of the village, and Moonfield itself was surrounded by fields of tall grass, patterned in a circle where the moonlight bounced off. Its people received their light from the moon and their living from the field, and all this that sustained them, they owed to the earth and its masters.

As they searched for signs of an inn, Bajie spotted shapes moving about the windows above, each more antsy than the last. Alarm bells ringing, he dawdled up to the Tang priest and whispered, “Master, people are watching us.”

Xuanzang made to look up, only to to be stopped by the pig.

Bajie: “Don’t look, Master! We don’t want them to know.”

Xuanzang: “If it makes you uneasy, shouldn’t we double check?”

Bajie chuckled. “No, it was just an observation. If anything happens, you have us three to protect you, and your Buddha’s Sodding Palm.”

Ao Lie kicked him in the shin. Bajie bit his tongue to prevent a cry. “Four, you have us four to protect you.”

“Not very welcoming to strangers, are they?” Wukong mused, “maybe if we get rough with them…”

Xuanzang: “ No , you are not to threaten anyone here, understand?”

Wukong: “Your call, Master.”

The pilgrims wandered a few more paces before Xuanzang caught sight of THE CRESCENT TIGER’S INN, carved into a crooked sign over a mud-brown building, washed blue by the evening. The monk ordered his disciples to halt and pushed himself off the horse on wobbly steps. He gave Ao Lie a final stroke on the cheek before turning to the dragon’s three brothers.

“I don’t want any trouble from you three. Take care of your little brother and don’t move- you’re all so coarse and ugly that we’d be run out for sure. Let Master handle this for you.”

“You think so highly of us, Master,” Bajie said with sincerity.

With that, the Tang priest took his leave and marched to the door of the Crescent Tiger’s Inn. He cleared his throat and pushed the door open, delighted to know it was unlocked. He was met with utter darkness, and still, he ventured on.

“Hello?” he said, “this holy monk hails from the Tang Kingdom. I come here with my four disciples to stay the night. We’re on a quest for the holy scriptures in the western paradise. Is there anyone that can serve us?”

Eyes adjusting, Xuanzang could make out a series of circular tables and stools, the lingering smell of tea and burnt food in the air, proof that the inn was still in business.

“Hello?”

He cleared his throat again. “Hello!?”

“Don’t yell, venerable elder!” a voice rasped.

Xuanzang nearly tripped in surprise. He groped for stability in the dark, grabbing onto the corner of a rough sleeve. His gaze traced upwards until he was face to face with what appeared to be a wrinkled woman, hunched by old age.

“Hello, kind bodhisattva,” he said, “did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes, I heard very well. I can make you a cup of tea but no more.”

“Then shall I call my disciples?” He wasn’t sure if he should say three or four. He had intended to leave Xiao Bailong outside but the day had proven to him the prince was not one to stomach a single slight.

She shook her head viciously and said, “No, my son wouldn’t have it. He owns this inn, you know.” She shook again, white head glaring silver in the dark. “Moonfield is a holy village. We can’t welcome demons.”

Xuanzang: “I can’t speak for what you saw from your windows, but I assure you there are no demons in our company. We’re exorcists, actually.”

“I’m old but I’m not stupid, venerable elder.”

“Yes, some of my disciples were demons in the past, but ever since joining the Buddhist way, they’ve been redeemed.”

“We can’t allow it. You seem like a nice boy, but I can’t risk any evil tainting our inn- it’s bad luck for business, you know.”

“Bodhisattva-”

“Shh!” She pressed a hand over his mouth, shrinking against his chest as Xuanzang bent to reach her height. “He’s awake. I can’t make you that tea now. Please try elsewhere, venerable elder.”

The old woman released him and before Xuanzang could say more, she was ushering him towards the door, telling him all the ways her son could do him injury if they met. As he tried to bargain for more time, the disciples remained in wait.

Ao Lie had since returned to his human shape and busied himself with rubbing his spine. He had never carried anyone on his back before; if anything, it had been the other way around in the Western Palace.

“You’re sore already?” Wujing said, “aren’t you a watersnake?”

“I’m a dragon,” Ao Lie said with a haughty turn of the nose, “and you know it.”

Wujing: “High words from a horse.”

“You-!” Ao lie was about to raise a fist before he saw the ‘just try it’ warning in Wukong’s eyes. Instead, he humphed and folded his hands behind his back.

“Boss, Master’s been gone a long time,” Bajie said, “you think something happened?”

“Maybe he’s been duped into marriage again,” the monkey replied.

Wujing: “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Bajie: “You have no say in this. The boss and I can transform for the night. What about you and the brat? Gills? Horns? No wonder they think we’re monsters!”

Wukong: “Master’ll try to pull his demon redemption schtick again.”

The pig rolled his eyes. “Yes, and that always works so wonderfully.”

The three demons fell into silence once more, each staring absently ahead as they prepared for the master’s inevitable return with news of failure. Ao Lie yawned and approached Wukong, filled with regret at having not thrown the monk off his back earlier.

“Big brother,” he said, “what’s taking that baldy so long?”

And then he was yanked onto his tiptoes, Wukong’s hand in his hair. The first disciple glowered, jabbed a finger at his chest, and hissed, “ Listen here. You call him Master and nothing else .”

Too scared to say more, the dragon nodded with a gaping mouth, stumbling three steps when Wukong released him from that tight grip. Regaining his balance, Ao Lie turned to see Xuanzang coming out of the Crescent Tiger’s Inn, thoroughly dejected. The Tang priest rejoined his disciples and sighed.

“They don’t welcome us here,” Xuanzang said, “come, let’s try our luck at another door.”

“Really Master?” Wukong said, “you mean they don’t serve demons here? How shocking.”

“Wukong, I’m not in the mood- don’t push me.”

Xuanzang walked past the group, taking it upon himself to find a room for the night. Wukong strolled in step with him, and side by side, they moved through Moonfield Village, Ao Lie and the others several feet behind.

“Hurry it up,” Bajie said to Wujing, “we’re all tired here- pick up the pace!”

Wujing: “Fine, fine!”

Noting Ao Lie’s silence, the pig crept behind him and put an arm around the boy. “Relax. The boss has issues when it comes to Master. He’s just taking it out on you.”

“I don’t follow,” Ao Lie said, suspicious of Bajie’s friendly manner.

“He killed Duan too,” Bajie said, before leaving Ao Lie to catch up with their Master.

Ao Lie stopped in his tracks, long enough for Wujing to pass him with their wagon. He rolled the second disciple’s words over in his mind, unsure what to make of them save a vague unease that took seed and grew. And of course, Zhu Bajie would have no benevolent intentions for him, this Ao Lie knew. What to do next was another matter.

Ahead, Xuanzang put on an air of confidence for the sake of his students, but the encounter with the innkeeper’s mother left him rather deflated, so to offset those negative emotions, he went out of his way to exude cheeriness. But in Wukong’s opinion, the monk’s plastered smile was the fakest thing this side of the east. He considered letting the Tang priest know his thoughts, but decided against it in the end- the master rarely cared for being corrected.

“Lord Buddha, let this be the one,” Xuanzang said, stopping in front of THE WANING LION INN.

“Two inns in this small place?” Wukong muttered, “they really think they’re something.”

Xuanzang: “Hush, hush. I think we were meant to come here.”

Confident, the monk knocked on the door, before overcome with second thoughts. He looked to his disciples, Wukong leaning on that staff, Wujing standing in that pose, Bajie grappling with those sleeves, and Ao Lie playing with those horns. Xuanzang: “You four, stay where you are and let me handle this.”

Wujing: “That’s what you said last time!”

Xuanzang: “This time will work. Believe me.”

Bajie: “I believe you, Master, I always believe you.”

The doors opened and the disciples stepped out of view. A woman held a candle to Xuanzang’s face, her eyes framed by sleepless bags, a babe clinging to her revealed breast, its body wrapped by her freckled arm.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Yes, good bodhisattva. This humble man is Tang Sanzang of the Tang Kingdom, sent to retrieve the holy scriptures from the west by the Lord Buddha, and tonight, I pass by with my three- four disciples.”

She laughed, a cheerful, lively laugh.

“Sent by Lord Buddha? Then I must be the Queen Mother!”

“I tell the truth, bodhisattva.” Xuanzang felt his cheeks redden, the dim chuckling of his first disciple entering his ears.

“I haven’t laughed in so long. Please come in, venerable elder, do tell me more of your jokes.”

At the invitation, Xuanzang stepped in, the doors closing behind him as the woman guided him to wood-strung chair, cooing to her infant all the while. The lobby was half the size of THE CRESCENT TIGER’S INN, its tables scarce, and piled with dirty dishes. He took his seat, the woman leaving and returning with an extra candle and teapot.

“Leftover from our dinner,” she said, “do forgive me, we don’t get much business this season.”

Xuanzang doubted she had much business any season.

“My husband’s a most serious man,” she told him, “I haven’t laughed so well in so long.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Oh, he does. I’m his second- he’s never forgotten the other. Sometimes it’s like she never left- oh, there I go, rambling.”

“It’s no trouble! I’m most grateful for the tea.”

“You’re kind, venerable elder.” She flashed him a coy look and on instinct. Xuanzang coughed and glanced away.

“But I’m the one with his child. I run this business with him now. All in all, I would say I won- is that fair, venerable elder?”

“I suppose, but in this life, we must not compare ourselves to others.”

“Yes, you’re right- forgive me. I’ve been out of sorts since the child.” She folded her mud-colored robe over her chest and cradled the sleeping babe in her arms. “I can get my husband in a moment- he’s asleep and I hadn’t the heart to wake him. Did you want a room for the night?”

“Yes, most desperately.” Xuanzang hesitated. “I’m low on money, however. I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you much for your service.”

“It’s alright, venerable elder- consider the tea a gift, and a room for one won’t cost much.”

“No,” he said, bracing himself for another round of laughter, “I wasn’t lying before. I have four disciples with me.”

He leaned in and whispered, “One is a dragon. The other three are former demons. I made them a promise I can’t afford to break.”

“Haaa! Ha-ha! Oh, I like you very much, venerable elder! Is heavenly king Li with you too? Will Erlang Shen need a room?”

He tried to cut in once more, but the innkeeper’s wife laughed at every turn, as if ready to laugh her lungs out and giggle into eternity. At last, he managed to say, “please, come, bodhisattva. I’m afraid I’ll have to show you my disciples in the flesh.”

“Show me? Yes, let’s see!” She gathered the babe in her arms, and like a little girl, followed Xuanzang out of the inn, all too happy to see what else the monk had up his sleeve.

“I must warn you,” he said as they entered the street, “they’re not a sightly group to behold.”

She fell silent behind him.

Xuanzang: “Yes, I know, it’s quite shocking-”

“Are they a performance troupe?” she asked, ogling the pilgrims with curiosity.

Bajie spread his fan. “You could say that. We can do other things too, and I’ve always found married women especially sexy.”

Unwilling to repeat another one of the pig’s escapades, Xuanzang stepped between him and the woman, Wukong and Wujing dead silent.

Ao Lie: “I know four transformations and a half. Would you like to see?”

Xuanzang: “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. So you see, bodhisattva, my disciples may appear to be disfigured, perhaps malformed persons, but they’re actually not human at all and in possession of repenting hearts.”

Malformed? Ao Lie thought, we’ll see who’s malformed when I bite your head off, egghead .

Wukong: “You sure do praise us well, Master.”

The innkeeper’s wife assessed Xuanzang’s band again, realization dawning on her face that what he said was indeed true. “Venerable elder, I’m not the superstitious sort but Moonfield has a tradition of banishing demons, redeemed or not. We can’t let you stay the night.”

Xuanzang: “But-”

“Let me finish,” she said, rocking the babe back and forth, “I very much enjoyed your company and your jokes-”

Xuanzang: “Jokes?”

“-tonight, so I haven’t the heart to leave you stranded. Wuzhuang Temple is a little ways from Moonfield. We’ve never seen its Master, but we pray to him all the same. In a way, we call him our patriarch, the great Immortal Zhenyuan.”

“And yet you believe in him ?”

“More out of habit. We pay tribute to him every now and then, but I’ve always chalked it up to myth. That is, until I met you tonight. Wouldn’t hurt to try and seek refuge there, would it, venerable elder? Someone as noble as the Immortal Zhenyuan must be willing to lend a hand.”

The disciples looked to their master, as if daring him to make a decision, and Xuanzang knew they planned to mock him, no matter what course of action he took.

“Which way?” he asked.

“See there?” She pointed in the distance, at the moonlit outline of a sloping mountain, “That’s Longevity Mountain, the temple’s home.”

Xuanzang kowtowed and said, “Thank you, bodhisattva, from the bottom of my heart.”

He turned to the disciples. “Thank the bodhisattva and get ready!”

In turn, they kowtowed and mumbled their thanks, no doubt irritated at having to walk the extra mile. As they took their leave, Xuanzang touched the top of the babe’s head and held its mother’s hand.

“Don’t worry about your husband,” he said, “you’re a lovely woman, bodhisattva, and he would be stupid not to see it. If you believe in this love, then it shall be so.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Master Sanzang.”

Chapter Text

The hike up Longevity Mountain was a monotonous task, accompanied by feet on steep earth and whistling leaves, all of which led to the chipped stone stairs of Wuzhuang Temple. Ao Lie clopped upwards, Xuanzang struggling to stay atop him as the older disciples trudged on behind them, lugging the wagon in their wake.

“We should have just camped down there,” Bajie complained, “it’s well past midnight now anyway.”

“Quit whining,” Wujing said, “I’m the one with the wagon.”

“Both of you assholes quit whining,” Wukong ordered, “we don’t want the brat copying you.”

And after a period of what seemed like days, Xuanzang and his companions finally reached the gates of Wuzhuang. The Tang priest slipped off Ao Lie, tidied himself up, and led the others into the Immortal Zhenyuan’s courtyard, a vast clean space with high trees and intricate pillars, all cut in red, brown, and white. There, the moonlight beamed straight down, forming a circle of yin and yang in the center of the yard, filled in with dancing shadows and bouncing light.

While Xuanzang admired the scenery, he heard a voice say, “You’re late.”

Startled, he turned to the source. Seeing nothing, he looked left, then right.

“Down here,” another voice said.

The monk turned his gaze downwards, only to see the heads of two children, no older than ten. Pale and haughty, they stood in black and white robes, spun from fine silk, hair neatly split into two buns, held together by silver ribbons.

“Might I ask who you are, little Masters?”

“I am called Qingfeng,” said one.

And “I’m Mingyue,” said the other.

And together: “The humble servants of the great Zhenyuanzi.”

Xuanzang couldn’t detect an ounce of humility in the duo, but he knew not everyone could emulate the constant low profile he kept for himself.

“Tang Sanzang,” Qinfeng said, “our Master instructed us to meet you in the courtyard today. He predicted you would seek his company.”

“Well yes-”

“We waited for you all day, monk,” Mingyue said, “you shouldn’t have kept us waiting.”

“Um, my apologies,”  Xuanzang said, “but we only discovered your Master’s temple in the night. We had no prior intention to disturb him.”

Qinfeng: “The Master is away on an errand. It is not him you disturbed, but us.”

Mingyue: “And you’re only supposed to have three disciples with you, what’s up with the extra?”

“I accepted a fourth disciple just yesterday, Prince Ao Lie, third heir of the Western Sea. In turn, he follows as my steed. Surely your Master wouldn’t mind?”

Qingfeng scrunched his nose. “Master did say Tang Sanzang was an odd fellow. This does not surprise me.”

“Thank you?” Xuanzang said, “may I ask how Zhenyuanzi knew we were coming?”

“Your mortal mind couldn’t understand,” Mingyue quipped, “our Master is the patriarch of all earth deities, all-seeing, almighty-”

Qingfeng: “He gets his information from the local earth deity. We heard wind of your arrival in this direction and he assumed you would come.”

Mingyue: “That too.”

Xuanzang nodded anxiously and clapped his hands together in a kowtow. “We’re most honored to be his guests.”

“But that does not excuse your untimeliness,” Qingfeng said, and before the monk could apologize, added, “come, I will show you to your rooms. Mingyue will handle your royal steed.”

Hearing those words, the second servant pulled Qinfeng aside and hissed in his ear, “What? Why do I have to take the horse?”

“Because I said so and Master left me in charge,” was the reply Xuanzang heard.

Under the bright moon, Mingyue stormed off in the direction of his disciples, Qingfeng looking on in satisfaction. And like his namesake, the servant moved towards the inside of Wuzhuang, on steps as light as clear wind, beckoning Xuanzang to follow.

There was one bed and three of them. Bajie ticked his teeth in irritation, arms crossed as he paced about the room that Zhenyuanzi’s boy had led them through. The little servant’s stoic face had unnerved him, but all had been forgiven upon seeing the luxurious guestroom- a finely cut window, a ceiling of white jade, furniture befitting of Li Shimin himself, and a soft bed big enough for two.

And then all his irritation returned when the servant informed them, matter-of-factly, that this was Xuanzang’s room.

The disciples then followed Qingfeng into the room next door, a scarcely furnished space with a circular hole for a window, one bed- half the size of their Master’s, a wooden couch, and two rolled-out futons.  

Qingfeng: “My Master will be back at dawn. Your master will dine first at daybreak- do not be late.”

With that, the boy had parted and the three demons were left to unpack amongst themselves.

“It’s really strange, don’t you think?” Bajie asked the other two, “that all the children we met have been unbearable.”

“The baby was alright,” Wujing said.

“Because it was asleep,” Wukong finished.

The monkey hopped over a wooden beam and peered into the window- they could expect bugs and the like in the night. “Could be worse- the dragon’s not with us, at least.”

“Amitabha,” Bajie said, mock-fainting onto the chaise-lounge, “we’d never hear the end from him.”

Wujing: “So how are we sleeping?”

Wukong ignored him, still poking his head into the window, as if waiting to catch sight of the Immortal Zhenyuan’s return.

Bajie: “What are you, stupid? It’s obvious. Boss takes the bed. Chair’s mine. And you get the floor.”

The servant named Mingyue had tried to lock him in a stable. Furious, Ao Lie twisted, jaws snapping over the boy’s hand, and in return, Mingyue clouted him over the ears, pulling his horns as the prince tried to crush his feet.

“Just get in there!” he cried.

Ao Lie whinnied and kicked him in the torso. The wind knocked out, Mingyue’s knees buckled, their owner crumpling before the pony’s hooves.

“Q- Qingfeng! Help!” the servant wheezed.

Ao Lie turned his head, but by then, the second servant had arrived and thrown a rope around his neck. He neighed in protest, but Qingfeng proved to be much more competent than his companion. The boy tugged, managing to drag Ao Lie into a wooden stall, and before the dragon could retaliate, Qingfeng  had released him from the rope and locked the door.

From the slits in the door, Ao Lie saw Qingfeng’s shadow help Mingyue up with a mumbled, “Your skill is lacking.”

Mingyue: “If you’re so great, why didn’t you do it?”

Qinfeng: “I was handling the demons, or would you rather take my place?”

Mingyue: “Bah! Forget you, I’m out of here.”

Qingfeng turned to Ao Lie and slid the top of the door aside, allowing the pony a good amount of open space. “Forgive him, your highness. Mingyue has not been with our Master as long as me. I shall be back with your meal at daybreak; do as you please in the meantime. Farewell.”

Ao Lie glared at his backside as the servant left, knowing full well there wasn’t a hint of apology in Qingfeng’s voice. He shook his mane, slid into his human form, propped himself against the stall door and rested a palm against his head.

“Do as I please, you say?”

He smirked and crossed over the stall, falling on his head in the process. Grateful that no one had been there to witness his accident, he crawled onto his feet and left the stable. Keeping to the shadows, Ao Lie crept along the walls of Wuzhuang, taking a small thrill in disobeying that smug servant. Zhenyuanzi was a character of good taste, he admitted- the architecture vaguely reminded him of home, and he’d seen enough of Master Puti’s gaudy decorations to know what was what.

The thought of Puti gave him pause. Ao Lie was the old celestial’s last recourse, and he certainly did not want to leave his master to rot, and yet- why bother? He’d already made up his mind to reconcile with Father instead, and he did not carry the Tang priest all the way here for nothing. Whatever guilt he might have felt, Ao Lie pushed to the back of his mind.

A flicker of candlelight caught his attention. Ao Lie snuck towards the source and found himself outside the window of Xuanzang’s room. He stared in- the monk was curled on his bed, head facing the window, eyes shut in bliss, a dreamy smile on his lips.

“Miss Duan,” the egghead mumbled, “I’m back.”

Instinctively, Ao Lie touched his stomach- no doubt Duan had long since been digested. Bajie’s words returned- he killed Duan too - and Ao Lie had to wonder if Duan really was just their prized horse. Xuanzang began kissing the pillow. Ao Lie certainly hoped Duan was not just their horse. And better yet, this could be just what he needed, if he could wait long enough for one of the disciples to slip up.

He left Xuanzang’s window and poked his head into the one beside it. In the dark, he could see Bajie lying on a chaise-lounge and Wujing flat on the ground, both snoring up a chorus.

“ Couldn’t sleep? ”

Ao Lie fell on his butt, smacking a hand over his mouth to muffle a cry. Wukong had dropped down from the ceiling, upside down as his knees hung over a ceiling beam. The monkey cast him a malicious grin.

“Did you want Master to hug you again, hm?”

“N- no!” Ao Lie whispered, “I was just exploring. I’ll be off now. Goodnight, big brother.”

The prince hastily scrambled away, all too eager to return to the safety of his stable as Wukong eyed his retreat.

Reality set in at the crack of dawn, when a pounding at the door stirred Xuanzang from his dreams. Mingyue had come to guide him through the day, and from his tone, the monk could tell he was not happy to do so. Xuanzang woke up in haste, washed his face in the basin provided, relieved himself in the corner chamberpot, and quickly adjusted his robes. When he was set, he all but crashed out of the room and furiously knocked on the neighboring door.

More than a bit cranky, the disciples filed out one by one, popping joints and rolling shoulders, each displeased to see Xuanzang and even moreso at seeing Mingyue. Having gathered the pilgrims successfully, the boy led them down the hall and into the opposite corridor, path opening into a garden of plums. They crossed it and entered an open parlor, taking their seats about a round stone table.

“With all this fanfare, you’d think they’d have a ten course meal,” Bajie whispered to Wujing.

“Wuneng,” Xuanzang warned.

Bajie fell silent as Qingfeng entered from the opposite side, a covered porcelain bowl in his hands. He set it on the table and beckoned Mingyue to stand by his side.

“Tang Sanzang,” Qingfeng said, “our Master instructed us to present you with this gift before his arrival.”

“He’s only giving it to you because you’re going west for Buddha,” Mingyue added, “so consider yourself lucky.”

Qingfeng: “Yes, he thinks it a good idea to establish relations with you.”

Xuanzang: “I’m most thankful.”

Wujing: “Show us already!”

Qingfeng offered a slight bow before removing the cover. Xuanzang and his disciples leaned in for a closer look, staring at the two bulging objects within the dish. And the Tang priest instantly paled.

“This- this,” he stammered, “what is this?”

The objects stared back at him, overgrown embryos the size of a man’s fist. They were layered in translucent skin and tangled in thin pink veins, miniature limbs curled inwards as their heads bobbed in juice, seeds in place of the eyes above their shapeless lips and nose.

“Your master eats babies!?” Bajie gasped.

“And there are only two- there are four of us!” Wujing said.

Wukong slapped his thigh and cackled. “What a morning! You starting with the head or the legs, baldy?”

Xuanzang: “It’s not funny! All three of you be quiet! Qingfeng, what- I can’t accept this. We took a vegetarian vow.”

Mingyue rolled his eyes and said, “No, you hick. It’s not meat. These things came from Master’s Ginsengfruit tree. He treats it like his own flesh and blood.”

“These fruits are truly a treasure,” Qingfeng added, “do cherish them, venerable elder. One whiff can extend your life three-hundred-sixty years and one fruit, forty-seven thousand.”

“I have no need to live that long,” Xuanzang said, “my first disciple is already immortal and the other two have a good many years ahead of them as well. Could we have a simple vegetarian meal instead?”

The corner of Qingfeng’s mouth twitched, but the servant was quick to control his temper. He covered the bowl once more and said, “If that is your wish, I will inform the Master when he returns.”

“Get your own food, then!” Mingyue said, “do you have any idea how long it took to get these fruits? Is this how you respect my Master?!”

Bajie: “We can eat the Master’s portion.”

Wukong: “You really have a way with children, Master,”

Xuanzang: “Be quiet!” He turned to Mingyue,  “I’m sorry, but-”

“You can bet I’ll tell Master what a shallow man you are,” Mingyue threatened, turning on his heels as Qingfeng did the same.

“So what do we eat!?” Wujing called out behind them.

The duo offered no response as they exited, leaving a flabbergasted Xuanzang behind. The monk buried his head in his arms, moaning in frustration. Wukong leaned his head on Xuanzang’s lowered shoulder, shut one eye, and watched the servants fade into the distance.

“You’ve really raised the stakes now, Master,” he said.

“You bad monkey,” Xuanzang’s muffled voice said, “no help at all.”

Wukong: “Relax, what can they do to you? You want me to take a look?”

Xuanzang raised his head by a fraction, casting Wukong a wary glance. “You won’t start anything?”

“Would you rather Bajie or Wujing go? Maybe Xiao Bailong?”

He had a point. Xuanzang moaned again and said, “Fine, just see how they handle the fruit and come straight back. No monkey business.”

Wukong snorted. “No monkey business.”

Filled to the brim with anger, Wujing prepared a reluctant meal for his companions right there in the parlor, etiquette be damned. He started a fire in the garden and left the dirty pots and pans for the servants to collect. Again, they set aside a bowl for the boss, that monkey having slithered off to spy on the boys.

He and Bajie were stuck with the Tang priest as they dined and waited, all because the master couldn’t stomach the sight of ugly fruit. The thought made his blood boil and Wujing didn’t hesitate to let the master know.

“You take my cooking for granted all the time,” he said, “and the one day I’m not prepared to serve you, you call on me? What do you take me for, Master, some maid?”

“Wujing,” Xuanzang said, “Wujing, please calm down-”

“You know I do everything seriously! But do any of you appreciate it? No!”

“Maybe we’d appreciate it more if you weren’t such a whiner,” Bajie said.

“Look who’s talking!” Wujing replied.

Xuanzang: “Bajie, Wujing, you know arguments lead nowhere.”

Wujing: “And if your Sodding Palm is so great, why can’t you bother to cook?!”

Bajie: “Hey, you can’t talk to Master like that!”

Wujing: “Stop brown-nosing!”

Bajie: “I’ll show you brown-nosing-”

The disciples pushed and shoved at one another, mere steps away from violence, and Xuanzang had no choice but to raise his voice. “Stop it! Or I really will use the Palm! Your big brother was no match for it, so I doubt you two can stand it!”

Satisfied at their reluctant silence, Xuanzang put his hands in his lap, straightened his back, and waited. He hoped Wukong would have nothing to report, but another thought itched at him, even more than the idea of meeting Zhenyuanzi face to face. He thought of what to do with Ao Lie- it had been mulling in his head since they first arrived at Wuzhuang and only now did he reach his final decision.

In the kitchen, Qingfeng dumped the fruits from their bowl as Mingyue scowled from his place on the table.

“Who’s that monk think he is?” Mingyue spat, “who in their right mind would turn this down?”

“Yes, he is a stubborn man.”

“Hey, you know what we should do? Let’s eat them ourselves and tell Master he accepted.”

“Lie to the Master’s face? Are you daft?”

“Think about it. Monk won’t take them, and it’d be a waste on his disciples. We really want that clown-faced Zhu Bajie living forever? Friar Sand’s a few screws loose too. And Sun Wukong’s batshit enough without the Ginsengfruit.”

“You do make a convincing argument. And we did help Master tend his tree for the past thousand years.”

“And we waited all day to serve those beggars hand and foot. Come on, let’s do it!”

In unison, they each scooped up a fruit, eyed one another, and bit in, the pink juice smearing their lips as they took bite after bite of Zhenyuanzi’s beloved fruit. Finished, they spat out the seeds and hid them in their robes.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have to eat again,” Mingyue sighed.

“Yes, that was the most heavenly thing I ever ate.”

With that, they finished tending their duties in the kitchen and took their leave, trying in vain to cover their ensuing burps. The fly on the opposite wall landed on the floor and took the shape of Xuanzang’s eldest disciple. Wukong eyed the scar on his palm.

“No monkey business,” he said. Yes, no starting monkey business, but if the servants engaged in it first, then it really couldn’t be helped, could it?

And- change!- the fly flew out.

Ao Lie loitered about the courtyard, hoping to avoid everyone and anyone for that matter, but Xuanzang’s shout of, “Xiao Bailong!” stopped him in his tracks. It was a dreaded nickname that he had yet to be used to.

Ao Lie searched for the other disciples- they were nowhere to be found. And eyes widening, the dragon wondered if this was his chance to be rid of the monk. Then he remembered the Buddha’s Sodding Palm and shuddered.

“I was looking all over for you,” Xuanzang said with a beam, “I thought you were in the stable.”

“I’m just taking a walk. That’s all.”

“Then I caught you in time. I’d like to have a word.”

“With only me, Master?”

“Yes, it only concerns you.”

Ao Lie gulped, hoping the Tang priest hadn’t caught onto his plan so soon. Had he been so obvious? Had one of the others seen right past him and informed the monk?

“I know you’re unhappy.”

It must have been Zhu Bajie! The pig must have squealed!

“No, Master! I’m very happy! Don’t believe a word that pig says!”

Xuanzang furrowed his brows. “What does Bajie have to do with anything? I only wanted to share a concern with you.”

Ao Lie: “Oh.”

He felt his heart slow to an even pace as Xuanzang clapped his back and took him to sit on a shaded bench.

“The journey west is a hard one,” the monk told him, “we have to be in it physically and mentally. You’re not like your three brothers- they have to be with me. But you, Xiao Bailong, you’ve committed no sin.”

“I broke Father’s pearl.”

“A child’s mistake. It can be forgiven. You’re not a demon and you’ve done your part. You’ve carried me a fair way and I hope some of my teaching’s rubbed off on you.”

“It certainly has, Master!” Get to the point, egghead.

“But this journey will do you no good if your heart’s not in the matter. You’re miserable and I can’t promise things will get better. So you can leave if you want. I won’t hold you as my disciple.”

Ao Lie blinked, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “Leave? But… where would I go?”

Xuanzang looked up and smiled. “Wherever you want, the sky, the sea. It’s a wonderful thing, to fly. I’ve thought this through- go to Qingfeng. He’s more level-headed. Tell him your master wants you to have his Ginsengfruit. Then bring that to your father.”

Ao Lie: “But what of Master Puti?”

Xuanzang: “I’ll speak to Wukong and we’ll see what can be done. That monkey’s hard-headed but he’s not so heartless.”

He turned again to the prince. “I’ll leave you to decide. If you’re gone in the evening, then I’ll know what you’ve chosen. For what it was, though, you did fair for a new disciple.”

Speechless, Ao Lie could only say, “Thank you… venerable elder.”

Xuanzang stood up, kowtowed with a final smile, and left. Once he was sure the monk was gone, Ao Lie reached into the fold of his robe and guiltily removed the object he had hidden within, a Ginsengfruit plucked straight from Zhengyuanzi’s darling tree. It was supposed to have been collateral to appease his Father should he fail to obtain the Tang priest. But Tang Xuanzang had to come and play the saint, and for once, Ao Lie truly did not know what to do.

The servants left the Ginsengfruit tree unguarded while they tended Wuzhuang’s courtyard in preparation for their Master’s return. Bajie tiptoed around that tree, half expecting the real Zhenyuanzi to pop out and attack him any second. Fortunately, that had yet to occur. He whistled as he admired the immortal’s handiwork- the trunk was thick with rich bark, long branches curling into the sky as violet leaves swung atop, the Ginsengfruit bobbing in the wind like crying children.

He was eager to try a bite of this fruit and he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to take one for himself- the Tang priest had been offered two after all. Those boys seemed so loyal to their master he doubted they would do anything to the ones they took back. Bajie lifted his rake to claw at the lowermost branch.

“Asshole, what are you doing?”

Bajie cried out as Wukong poked his head from out of a nestle of leaves.

“Boss, what are you doing here?”

“Taking what’s ours. What does it look like I’m doing?” Wukong tossed a fruit in Bajie’s direction, the pig scrambling to catch it.

“Those runts ate the baldy’s fruits, and they had some choice words for us.” He tossed another fruit.

Bajie barely caught it. “What did they say?”

“Called me crazy. You’re a clown, and Friar Sand has some screws loose. The usual.”

“How insulting! Give me another one! We’ll show them!”

The last one fell and hit Bajie in the nose before bouncing into his arms. Wukong jumped down, landing on his feet.

“Figured they can take the punishment for eating two. Two were supposed to go to us anyway, so all in all, taking three’s a good deal.”

Bajie eyed the fruits in his arms, slightly unnerved by their aesthetic. Then it occurred to him that they were doing this for the taste alone- neither of them really needed the fruits in any capacity. And still, he wondered.

“So one for me, one for you, and one for Old Sha?” he said, “Boss, you’re going to eat a whole fruit? This doesn’t seem like your style.”

“I eat fruit all the time.”

“No, I mean… you don’t usually go behind baldy like this.”

Wukong snatched a fruit from his hands and bit into it, chewing as he said, “Maybe I felt like it today.”

Bajie brushed the monkey’s shoulder. “Do you remember what that boy said about these things? Immortality? I wonder what else these fruits can do, maybe- heal ?”

Having finished the fruit, Wukong spat out a seed and moved out of his grip. “Only thing that needs healing is your brain.”

“Stop!”

The two turned, only to see a stunned Wujing rushing in their direction. The fish stared at their fruits in horror and said, “Master sent me to stop you!”

“What, baldy doesn’t trust me?” Bajie said, “I only said I was going for a stroll!”

“Eldest brother, second brother,” Wujing said, “the baldy’s not going to stand for this.”

“Fine,” Wukong sighed, “we’ll put one back. Pighead, give me a fruit. The two of you can share the last one.”

“That’s not fair,” Wujing said, “you already ate one!” And he remembered the untouched congee. “This is the second time you skipped my cooking!”

Wukong: “Then eat the fruit! I don’t give a damn.”

Wujing: “You just said to put it back!”

Bajie bit into the second fruit, unwilling to share with the third disciple. And before anything could be done about the third, Wukong grabbed it and prepared to climb back up the great tree. Wujing followed at his heels, yelling, “Boss, you only took three fruits! They took two! But there are supposed to be thirty!”

“Well, there’s twenty-five left! And how do you know?”

“The servant told Master. And count! There are twenty-four.”

Wukong froze, scanning the branches for fruit. There were indeed twenty-four. Then where did the twenty-fifth go?

“Bailong,” he muttered in accusation.

Only then did he realize his mistake: Wujing heard.

“I’ll kill him!” the fish demon roared, snapping a branch off in rage as he slid off the trunk.

“Wujing, wait!” Wukong cried. He leapt down and threw his arms around Friar Sand.

“I don’t care if you shared a master!” Wujing said as he thrashed, “he can’t go unpunished for this- brat thinks he can do anything he wants!”

In his effort to wriggle free, the fish lurched up, propelling them both in Bajie’s way. They shot into the pig and together, all three disciples smashed into the base of that tree, a combined thousand years of demonic weight hitting the Ginsengfruit sire straight in its heart.

The roots cracked and slowly, the trunk itself split, Zhenyuanzi’s prized tree falling with a mighty crunch, fruits scattering and leaves parting in the sky. And dumbfounded, the disciples lay one on top of the other, baiting their breath as the tree died before their eyes.

Chapter Text

Xuanzang knew what happened before he heard it, thanks to an unfortunate sense of intuition he harbored for his faithful disciples. For all his antics, the Tang priest was not a stupid man, and he had enough sense to know that his first disciple would be unable to keep out of trouble. But Xuanzang trusted that monkey enough to expect him not to dip his toes in serious trouble.

He had significantly less faith in his second disciple, so when that pig wandered off, he had no doubt that whatever ideas Bajie had in mind would cross paths with Wukong’s tricks. Perhaps he could manage them individually, but put together, the consequences may be too much to shoulder. And so in his great wisdom, Xuanzang sent Wujing to stop his brothers because he knew the fish to be the most deadset in his tasks- in rare cases, that stubbornness came in handy.

But Xuanzang had forgotten an important factor, one that slipped his mind entirely. There were four disciples now and Ao Lie was the straw that broke the camel’s back. This realization flashed by his mind as the heavens shook with a resounding- crash!

The sound was so loud it jolted him from head to toe, sending the monk half tumbling off his chair. In a panic, Xuanzang crept to his feet, trying to pinpoint the source, for it seemed to echo from all around him.

He went with the feeling in his gut, and his gut told him the demons were wreaking havoc beyond the open parlor. That, and the fact he could hear their angry bickering coming from somewhere not far north. Whatever the case, he was determined to give them a piece of his mind, but as he neared their location, that rage gave way to an increasing dread.

Xuanzang: “What the hell happened here!?”

Eyes wide and jaw slack, he stared at the mess in his path, a trunk the size of ten trees broken into a hundred or so splinters on the ground. Its branches lay in disarray, precious ginseng fruits splattered against soil like pink egg yolk, their juice spreading like sticky pools of blood. And at the center of it all stood his guilty pupils, exchanging telltale I-look-at-you, you-look-at-me glances in an effort to pin the blame.

“Master, we can explain,” Bajie said with a sheepish bow, “I know it looks bad… but-”

“Yes, it looks bad!” Xuanzang bellowed, “I leave you alone and this happens! I told you all to stay out of trouble. Now look what you’ve done- how are you going to explain this!? Do you have any respect for your master!?”

They said nothing.

Xuanzang: “Well!?”

Wukong: “Well what? Tree’s gone, yell all you want.”

Bajie: “I tried my best to save it, Master, but alas, alas!”

Xuanzang ignored Bajie’s words all together, forcing himself to march up to Wukong and grab a fistful of robes. “Damned monkey! I told you not to start anything- Master trusted you. Now look at what’s happened! Now we have to stay and fix this!”

Wukong: “Master-”

Xuanzang: “Don’t cut me off, bad monkey! I have more to say. The Immortal Zhenyuan was kind enough to let us into his home, give us shelter, give us food, and this is how we repay him?! By destroying his life’s work, by stabbing him in the back!?”

Wukong: “Master-”

Xuanzang: “We’re the lowest of the low! I’ve failed as your master if this is how you treat those who help us! All three of you should be as ashamed as I am, you especially! We’re irredeemable! How can we possibly face Zhenyuanzi now!?”

Zhenyuanzi: “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Master, the patriarch’s here,” Wukong finally managed to say.

Xuanzang promptly closed his lips, slowly released the monkey, and stiffly turned around on cautious steps. Their host had returned at long last and stood before them in the flesh, his face sharp with wisdom and mortification under a head of pepper hair. The Immortal Zhenyuan’s white robes were lined with silver, sweeping over the ground in what seemed like a never-ending trail of silk. He lifted a hand to stroke his flowing beard, crisp against his rich attire.

“Master Sanzang,” he said in that grave tone, “I’m awaiting your answer.”

Too flabbergasted to untangle the fears in his brain, Xuanzang gawked, looked to his disciples, and said, “Uh… um, patriarch, I- I’m most upset by the conduct of my disciples. Please, if you will, allow us the chance to compensate you.” He clapped his hands together and kowtowed, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

The disciples followed suit, clapping their hands and kowtowing in unison. Bajie looked up and cried, “Patriarch! Please forgive us for the tragedy- we had no idea at all.”

Wujing: “Why’d you grow such a weak tree?”

Wukong smacked the fish over the head. “Asshole, what kind of question is that!?”

Wujing smacked him back. “It’s damn brittle!”

Xuanzang looked for the emotion on Zhenyuanzi’s face and found none save a polite smile and a sight flinch. The immortal only nodded, pulled out a tassel from his sleeve and waved away the dust in the air. “Venerable elder, that tree was made with my life’s blood, as you already know. It’s like a child to me, a precious healthy child that I, the father, look on with pride and joy.”

“Patriarch, I understand,” Xuanzang said, feeling as if the earth was about to open and swallow him whole, “and I am most apologetic-”

“My son gives birth to thirty fruits every nine thousand years, and each fruit is a pearl I treasure,” Zhenyuanzi continued, alarmingly gentle, “I’ve seen my child through ten cycles. How many years is that, venerable elder?”

“Ninety,” Xuanzang said in a near whisper, “thousand.”

“That’s correct, ninety thousand. Ninety thousand years I’ve raised and loved my son, but I was willing to share my joy with the world. I offered you his fruit, did I not? Why wasn’t that enough, venerable elder? Why did you have to, in your words, s tab me in the back and murder my child? ”

Wujing: “It’s just a tree.”

Bajie: “Little brother… why can’t you just shut up!?”

Xuanzang kowtowed again and said, “I- I understand, patriarch, and I’m sincerely sorry. I know our crime is unforgivable but surely there’s some way we can… redeem ourselves? As their master, I accept all blame.”

Zhenyuanzi: “A life for a life, I can accept. Which one of them did it?”

He pointed the tassel at the Tang priest’s disciples. “Have him step forward and repay me with blood.”

Xuanzang: “As in, how much blood?”

Zhenyuanzi: “All that he has.”

The conversation was certainly taking a worse turn than the monk expected. Xuanzang stepped in front of his disciples and laughed nervously, unsure if this incident could be resolved with peace. “Patriarch, my disciples are troublesome, yes, but it’s part of their demonic nature. Every being deserves a second chance and I’m sure that their crime doesn’t warrant death- perhaps we can reach an alternative?”

And then Bajie had an idea. He ran to the master’s side and said, “It was our little brother- Ao Lie, prince of the western sea! He did it- we tried to stop him but we were too late!”

Xuanzang eyed him with disbelief, positive that the lie was so obvious Zhenyuanzi would see through it before the pig even finished. He suspected Bailong had a hand in this mess, but to say he was the sole culprit was a blatant misconception. With the same sentiment, Wukong joined the second disciple, pushed him aside, and said, “Little brother was a part of it, yes. We did it, we broke your tree behind our master’s back.”

“Boss, I had the perfect excuse,” Bajie whispered, “why did you have to ruin it!?”

Wukong didn’t want to dignify that with a reply. Zhenyuanzi locked eyes with him, held in a breath, and backed away.

“So where is your fourth disciple, Master Sanzang?”

Xuanzang: “I released him from our group today. Please, patriarch, this has nothing more to do with him. Or them. I failed as their master and any punishment should fall on me.”

Wujing stayed silent as he acknowledged the master’s handling- Xuanzang was mortal and the chosen disciple of Tathagata Buddha, and by all means, a man Zhenyuanzi would never kill. In taking the blame on himself, Xuanzang would deflect the punishment from his disciples and preserve the lives of each demon, all of whom he needed by his side on the road west. And no doubt, this little display of selflessness would only endear him further to that monkey and make him seem dumber to that pig. Well played, baldy .

With a flick of his wrist, Zhenyuanzi waved the tassel. Xuanzang smashed into a wall. Very well played.

“Don’t push me anymore, venerable elder. That’s as far I’ll go with you.” The patriarch turned to the others. “So all of you, was it? Then let’s settle it together.”

Wukong whipped out the as-you-would cudgel and let out a bitter laugh. “Fine. I’ll reunite you with your tree, a good ol’ father son get together!”

Bajie: “You’ve got this, boss! I’m rooting for you!”

And late to the scene, the servant boys popped out from behind the garden walls with shouts of, “Master, we’ll help you!” and “Master, let me assist!”

With a flick of his wrist, Wukong sent Mingyue and Qingfeng smashing into Xuanzang’s wall. Then the monkey charged, golden fur rustling in the wind as he dodged the tassel’s blows, Zhenyuanzi flying up in turn, robes billowing behind like wrinkled paper. Wujing summoned the spade and Bajie called on his nine-toothed rake, the two ready to take the defensive should their eldest brother give the order. The cudgel swept through the air, narrowly missing Zhenyuanzi’s chin as the patriarch bit the tassel’s edge, freeing his hands to catch Wukong’s fists. Raising the cudgel to strike again, the monkey flipped on his head, foot scraping Zhenyuanzi’s nose and catching blood with a cry of “change!”. Expanded to the width of a rice bowl, the cudgel sunk into the ground with a jolt when Zhenyuanzi tilted, blasting Wukong into the wreckage of the Ginsengfruit tree.

“You think we can take him?” Bajie asked.

Wujing clutched his weapon and pursed his lips. “Hard to tell. Boss made a mistake when he touched the tree. Zhenyuan’ll fight tooth and nail for his revenge.”

Plated with armor, Wukong burst out of those broken branches, simian face twisted into a murderous scowl, four flags snapping out behind him, ink characters painted on each: GREAT SAGE EQUALING HEAVEN. He blew a hair behind his back and propelled straight into Zhenyuanzi’s chest, claws sinking into the immortal’s shoulders as they both tumbled into the garden walls, bringing the cement down in their wake.

Wujing: “But Zhenyuan made a mistake when he touched the baldy. Boss’ll fight to the death for him.”

Bajie: “The fight of the century, over a baldy and a tree. Ah, where does that place us?”

“Behind the boss. Where else?”

With that, Wujing pointed the crescent monk’s spade and dove into the fray, Bajie jumping in not far behind. They grounded their steps in that whirl of dust and debris, bracing themselves against the flashes of chi slicing about, Zhenyuanzi locked in a brawl with their eldest brother.

Wukong struck anything-anywhere, flags spinning as he smashed the cudgel to and fro, bearing and dodging the patriarch’s blows at every turn. Zhenyuanzi spun the tassel, parting his legs to steady his stance, palms flipping and clapping in a golden flutter of rampant chi. The tassel stretched, strings pulling into sharp points as they left the patriarch’s grip and joined his spiraled blast. The new wave blanketed the monkey and rolled him back. With a defiant roar, Wukong dug his feet down into the ground and shoved the growing staff out, pushing against that block of chi until he leapt up and tore through its face.

Zhenyuanzi’s chi shattered into a thousand or so gold flakes as the monkey flew forward, sharp teeth gnashed and yellow flags spread. He collided with the immortal and slid over earth, dragging them both through the ruined dirt, a flurry of dust and blood spouting into the sky. Having seen it all, Bajie and Wujing immediately left their spots and flanked their big brother, closing in on the fallen Zhenyuanzi.

And just as all three demons prepared to bash in the immortal’s head, Xuanzang managed to claw his way out of the broken wall, coughing and sputtering all the while. Warm blood trickled from the nicked vessels along his temple, the same red leaving his sore nose. Beside him, the boys had long since helped each other up, thoroughly bruised by all that transpired. Feeling the blue and purple blossoming on his scalp, Xuanzang dizzily stood and watched his disciples corner the Immortal Zhenyuan, with every intention of rendering him mortal .

Xuanzang had no doubt the consequences would be dire should they succeed. And regardless of what those delinquents thought, the master had no intention of letting any of his pilgrims risk divine retribution yet again. Forgive me. He did the only thing he could- he pressed his palms together.

“My child, my child, why are you so naughty?”

Wukong groaned, dropping the cudgel as knees bent and arms joined: “What gives, baldy!?” Startled, the pig and the fish also dropped their guards, and seizing the chance, Zhenyuanzi sat up.

“My child, when are you coming home?”

The Tang priest sang on, in spite of his disciples' protests while the dance rendered Wukong useless, flags retreating as he reverted to human shape. The patriarch spread his fingers and Bajie flew into a tree with a cry of pain, Wujing following suit with an enraged shout. Xuanzang ended the tune as Zhenyuanzi turned to Wukong, the monkey now on feet so unbalanced he stood little chance against the blow that sent him tumbling into the cracked wall.

Then the patriarch looked at Xuanzang, his beard stained with specks of blood, and robes smeared with dirt and red. “You could have escaped me, venerable elder. I’d hardly call this a wise decision.”

“Wise decisions are rarely the right ones,” Xuanzang said coldly, “I’ve said it before. I shall take the punishment you see fit, and my disciples the same- all I ask is you spare our executions.”

Zhenyuanzi thought his words over with disdain, turned to the idling servants, and gestured for action. “Very well. Qingfeng, Minyue, quit slacking and gather our guests! We have a busy day ahead.”

Mingyue: “You got it, Master!”

Qingfeng: “As you wish, Master!”

The Tang priest bowed and muttered, “Amitabha.”

The Immortal Zhenyuan and his servants strung them up like dry meat, binding each pilgrim’s wrists over head with thick cords of enchanted rope along a wooden slab. The Tang priest and his disciples hung from a three-slabbed stand in the courtyard, stripped of their cloaks and buried up to the knee in earth. Qingfeng and Mingyue guarded them with smug glee, tending to a pot boiling over fire all the while. Their master paced around the prisoners, a coiled whip in hand.

One next to the other, Wuneng, Sanzang, Wukong, and Wujing, looked on.

“Hey, Master,” Bajie whispered, “can you use your Buddha’s Palm now?”

“How can he,” Wukong growled, “he’s tied up.”

In the monkey’s opinion, those ropes were superfluous, easily broken with a snap of his hands, but should they escape, Zhenyuanzi would only hold them again, binding them all to the Tang priest’s word of surrender.

“He got us into this,” Wujing said, “Master, why are you so stupid ?”

Xuanzang: “That’s besides the point. I can’t use the Sodding Palm when we’re in the wrong- It’s not how justice works in this world and if any of you were enlightened, you’d know that.”

Wujing: “You’re going to get us all killed, baldy!”

Wukong: “Ah shut it. That’s probably what baldy wants, isn’t that right?”

“I did this so we wouldn’t get killed!” Xuanzang snapped, “and stop calling me baldy- I’m bald because of you and you know it!”

“Well, you never said anything about it,” Wukong hissed back, “if it bothers you so much, I can lend you some hair- grow a full head!”

“I don’t want your hair, bad monkey!”

“Then stay bald, baldy!”

Bajie: “Master, eldest brother, your flirting makes Wujing and I feel left out.”

Wujing: “Left out, your ass!”

“All of you, just shut up,” Mingyue ordered, poking Wujing in the side. The fish demon glowered down as the servant shrunk back. Retreating behind Qingfeng, Mingyue returned the glare.

Then the servants straightened as their master stopped before them. Zhenyuanzi eyed the pilgrims one by one, clicked his teeth, and said, “I’ll spare your lives, venerable elder, but as per our agreement, you’ll accept the punishment I see fit. And I’ll release you and your disciples when I feel repaid.”

“And may I ask, when will that be?” Xuanzang said warily.

“Don’t ask questions, monk!” Mingyue yelled.

Zhenyuanzi calmed the servant with a pat on the head and said, “When I see fit, venerable elder. It may be a month, it may be ten years.”

The fish: “What kind of terms are those!?”

“Wujing,” Xuanzang warned, trying to silence his third disciple with a glance.

“If I may have your attention now,” Zhenyuanzi said, and upon noticing Wukong’s downcast head, added, “all of you.”

The monkey looked up with weary eyes.

“There were thirty fruits on my tree, so I’ve decided one lash for one fruit is fair.”

Bajie: “That’s not so bad!”

Zhenyuanzi: “But seeing as my ginsengfruits are worth so much, I’ve multiplied that by two, so sixty lashes per fruit is more fitting, and for the damage wrought on my property, I’ve added an extra sixty. That brings us up to one hundred and twenty lashes for each of you and an additional ten for your master.”

Bajie: “Nevermind!”

That made one hundred and thirty lashes for him alone. Xuanzang gulped, mentally bracing for the pain that was to come. The soul was eternal and the flesh but a shell. And the discomfort that was to come was nothing compared to the pain of losing love, this he knew. And still, he flinched when Zhenyuanzi cracked the whip against the ground, a string of fire in its seven-piece snake of a shadow.  

“This is the seven-starred whip, fashioned from dragon’s hide. I haven’t had a use for this gift in a very long time,” the patriarch said, “You have something similar in your luggage, Master Sanzang. To keep your disciple in check, I believe? I assume yours is blessed with the Lord Buddha’s mark. Mine is powered by my own chi, and believe me-”

He cracked it again. “I will not hold back for any of you. And we shall start with you, the master. Does that sound agreeable with you, venerable elder?”

Xuanzang’s mouth suddenly felt very dry, and still he nodded. His lips parted to reply when Wukong’s voice cut past him: “Are you an idiot?”

Zhenyuanzi froze. He turned to the monkey. “What did you say to me?”

“You heard me,” Wukong said lowly, “are you slow or what? Baldy’s got nothing to do with it. I stole your fruits, I’m the one who killed your fucking tree. He can’t stand your lash anyway. You ought to hit me .”

Bajie: “Boss, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea-”

Xuanzang: “Wukong, I’m also not-”

Wukong: “Shut up.”

Reminded of his beloved’s death, the patriarch closed his lips in a tight line and clenched the whip until his knuckles turned white. Before Xuanzang could protest in his first disciple’s stead, Zhenyuanzi said through grit teeth, “very well.”

He raised the whip and struck, its edge slashing into Wukong’s shoulder and peeling away cloth and skin. Flecks of blood splashed against the patriarch’s hand upon the whip’s return. Zhenyuanzi pulled his grip back and released once more, weapon whooshing as it crossed the last wound, fire trailing over blood. Muscles tight, he continued, rapidly striking every which way as the whip cut chest and collar again and again until the monkey’s front was splattered with red.

And unrelenting, Zhenyuanzi cracked on.

Wukong felt teeth sink into his lower lip, drawing blood as he swallowed back sound. The lashes in Five Finger Mountain had been just as well, as had been the beatings from Tang Sanzang. But the Buddha had not been angry. And Chen Xuanzang had a mortal’s strength. The Immortal Zhenyuan was neither of those things.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine,” Qingfeng counted, eyes catching every wave of the master’s whip.

The whip sliced past the monkey’s face, leaving a line of red from nose bridge to jawline. It came up and thrashed against his head, recoiled and snapped against his side, furled and burned against his chest. Overcome by adrenaline, Zhenyuanzi struck over-under-on, lash upon lash carving in and out of the demon’s torso as they snatched blood in a frenzy of unending vengeance.

Qingfeng: “One hundred two, one hundred-”

Wukong failed to keep in a strangled groan, the noise fighting up his throat as the whip made its way across the thighs. Qingfeng counted one hundred and twenty-four. The shoulder blades throbbed. He felt the lash on his arms. Twenty-eight. It returned to the collar and trailed again to the ribs. Crack! And crack!

“One hundred thirty,” Qingfeng said.

Zhenyuanzi raised the whip and Xuanzang cried, “It’s done! Patriarch, it’s done!”

Xuanzang watched the patriarch swallow spittle and lower the weapon, chest heaving from strain and sweat gathering on his brow. Rather shaken, the monk turned to his first disciple, Wukong’s head hung so low Xuanzang couldn’t see past that tangle of hair. His clothes were soaked crimson, ripped and torn to the point that there was no telling where blood ended and skin began. And the blood dripped, trickling downwards in thick, dark drops.

And as the Tang priest prepared to call his disciple’s name, another smatter of blood abruptly burst from the latter’s back, painting a stain that looked as if a butterfly had spread twin wings across the scapulae. Wukong cursed Erlang Shen in his head, unable to disguise the bleeding scars any longer, his transformation of the flesh falling apart in wicked delight. The pipa bone had reopened its gashes in the patriarch’s fight and he’d disguised their blood with a surface trick from a single hair. And now Zhenyuanzi’s lash rendered him too weak to hold the spell, opening those two wounds for all to see. This, he did not account for and this, he refused to admit.

Bajie: “Boss, are you alright!?”

Xuanzang: “What kind of question is that? Do I not teach you to use your brain!?

The Tang priest craned his neck to see the monkey’s face and said, “Wukong, Wukong, look at me!”

He didn’t know what to say if Wukong refused, or if he complied. The monk’s mind was blank and he was only aware of one thing: his disciple was bleeding, and this time, it was not caused by Xuanzang’s hand. Not knowing what else to do, he continued saying the disciple’s name.

Wukong heard the Tang priest’s cries, but the words were unfamiliar, like the gibberish of some whining animal. And for a moment, he was sure he could understand nothing save the “oohs” and “ahs” of the monkeys in Flower Fruit Mountain. The pain in his shoulder blades eclipsed the pain of the patriarch’s flogging, and all of that somehow became nothing compared to the fire his body had become. He shut his eyes, squeezed, and opened, the world coming back into focus as he returned to reality.

Slowly, he tilted his gaze to the right. “Don’t yell,” he mumbled dryly, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to your master,” Xuanzang said, concern flaring in those eyes, “I forbid it.”

Even so, I’m fine had been what the Tang priest wanted to hear. And even so , it did nothing to ease his mind. And this uncharacteristic worry- pity- Wukong could not bear. He spat out the blood between his lips and said, hoarse, “Who’s lying? Old Sun’s got a cast of iron, remember.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Bajie said in an attempt to relieve the monk, “eldest brother’s as sturdy as iron- you just need to worry about yourself, Master.”

As sturdy as dented iron, perhaps , the pig thought to himself. He poked his head forward and strained to see Wukong, the monkey looking as torn up as he expected, if not worse, from the sound of Zhenyuanzi’s whip alone. Dented, rusty iron.

“How are you holding up, boss?” Wujing asked, a spot of the monkey’s blood having fallen against his face during the flogging. He received no reply.

The Immortal Zhenyuan wiped his brow and addressed Xuanzang again: “Your students may lack morality, but they’re loyal, at the least. For that, I’ll spare you, venerable elder. I only ask you to supervise their punishment.”

“There’s more?” Bajie said, growing more excited with each word, “Do you intend to strip us bare and beat us raw? Punish us until we sob and beg? Lick up our blood, drink our tears?”

Mingyue eyed him with disgust. “Master’s not a pervert like you!”

“He only does what is necessary,” Qingfeng added, “and none of what you described was necessary.”

“Leave the pervert be,” Zhenyuanzi said, “Qingfeng, Mingyue, the pot’s ready.”

Xuanzang forced himself to tear his eyes off Wukong and back onto the patriarch. “Might we ask what the pot is for?” He already dreaded the answer.

Zhenyuanzi: “Oil, taken from the core of this earth itself. It’s the only substance strong enough to cook my-” he voice broke slightly “-ginsengfruit. But we have no more use for it so I elected to boil the remainder.”

The boys lifted the pot by opposite handles, moving slowly to avoid spills. As they approached their prisoners, Xuanzang caught sight of the pot’s contents, simmering oil bubbling with heat.

“Careful!” Qingfeng warned, Mingyue’s misstep having caused a drop to hit the ground. That inch of dirt instantly charred and pushed up smoke.

“What are you going to do, cook us?” Wujing demanded.

“Actually, yes,” Zhenyuanzi said, gesturing in Friar Sand’s direction, “Master Sanzang, I’m going to douse this disciple in oil and skip his beating.”

“We’re frying fish today,” Mingyue said with a snicker.

Bajie: “Wow, he really thought these punishments through.”

Wujing: “Go ahead!”

Xuanzang: “I see… wait! You’ll burn his skin off- my disciple can’t survive that!”

Zhenyuanzi sighed. “Venerable elder, you say you agree to my terms, but you object again and again. Would you rather we pour this oil over you instead?”

Xuanzang looked aghast. Even if all four of them survived this ordeal, Zhenyuanzi seemed determine to leave them within inches of death. And of their four bodies, three did not have a cast of iron.

“Surely there can be another option- the whip perhaps?” he said.

“No, my chi needs to rest.”

“Patriarch, please-”

Wukong: “Hold on.”

The monkey forced his gaze up to meet Zhenyuanzi’s own, head threatening to dip down any moment. “Zhenyuan, he’s the third disciple.”

“Your first disciple has a habit of interrupting, doesn’t he?” the patriarch said to Xuanzang.

Speechless, the Tang priest watched Wukong with horror, hoping against hope the monkey wasn’t about to say what he suspected he would.

“I’m,” Wukong said, words fighting for breath, “the eldest. They follow my lead. Whatever you’re doing, do it to me .”

Zhenyuanzi considered his words again and said, “Very well. Qingfeng, Mingyue, you heard him. Carry on.”

“Stop!” Xuanzang shouted, but by then, the servants had complied, lifting the pot and tipping its contents over Wukong’s form.

The monkey shuddered, skin overtaken by blinding heat, nostrils assaulted with the smell of burnt flesh and new blood as the patriarch’s oil sizzled through. He felt it eat away at what remained of his ripped tissue, teeth gnashing of their own accord, body momentarily reminded of the flames in Laozi’s cauldron. Fire hadn’t bothered him in well over five centuries, and merciless, its torment returned twofold.

“Boss, why’d you do that!?” Wujing cried, “are you suicidal!?”

“Boss, we would have done the same for you!” Bajie said.

Wukong: “Shut… up… assholes!”

Xuanzang never quite knew how Wukong’s reported cast of iron worked, but he was sure what he saw here was not ironcast in the slightest. Whatever the case, that monkey seemed to genuinely react to this torture, and the sight of his leaking blood told Xuanzang he was not recovering. Neither of these observations sat well with the Tang priest.

“Wukong,” he chided, “I know I’ve taught you to love your brothers, but martyring yourself isn’t the right-”

Wukong: “Shut it, baldy.”

Xuanzang: “I’m trying to show my concern!”

Wujing made a startled noise between clenched teeth when Zhenyuanzi’s whip cracked across his chest, leaving behind a strip of peeled skin. The patriarch recoiled the whip and said, “And that takes care of the fish demon. Now onto your second disciple, venerable elder.”

Bajie: “One hundred and twenty lashes is a lot. Are you sure you don’t want my clothes off? I-”

Zhenyuanzi raised a palm and closed his fingers, Bajie’s lips immediately snapping shut, his squeals turned to muffled groans. “I’d rather do this silently. Consider yourself lucky- for conservation’s sake, I shall only use half of my leftover chi.”

“Master, flay his hide off!” Mingyue said with joy.

“I support that notion,” Qingfeng agreed.

And paying his servants no mind, the patriarch rounded the stand and took his place behind the four pilgrims. His protests caged in, Bajie felt as if his teeth had been glued together, tongue sewn to the back of his throat. He’d seen what that whip could do and as tantalizing as the process seemed, he was unsure he could survive over a hundred hits. It would be a thrilling way to die, he supposed, but to die under some bearded immortal’s hand instead of a ravishing beauty was a great tragedy, not romantic in the slightest. While Bajie anguished on, Zhenyuanzi threw the whip over his back.

It reminded him of the Jade Emperor’s paddle. After it had been rinsed in hellfire.

It hurt.

And - snap!- it hurt .

His scream came out sounding like a cotton-stuffed oink, bulging eyes too shocked to sob. He felt the warm release of blood, heard Xuanzang call his name, and saw the shadow of Zhenyuanzi’s whip over the sky. And the wound did not close upon opening. It stayed and bled as the patriarch flayed on. Snap! Pain tended to stimulate him, but not this- this , it hurt so badly he went beyond stimulation, until he felt nothing save an instinct in his brain that sensuously begged for respite.

Wukong listened absently to the pig’s beating and wondered how long it would take the four of them to die. Barring that monk, the three of them would have been able to withstand the whip in theory, with or without his cast of iron. They would survive, then they would linger, and eventually the pain alone would kill them off. That was Xuanzang’s misstep- it hadn’t occurred to him that Zhenyuanzi worked by different standards, for the Immortal Zhenyuan was no longer human. Zhenyuanzi had long since forgotten the trials of mortality and they all paid the price. And Wukong supposed he too had forgotten the very same.

He wheezed out a bitter chuckle. Bajie would die under the whip, likely from a mixture of perverse bliss and real pain, and the monk would blame himself for that idiot’s death, as the Tang priest always did. Xuanzang would never absolve himself of this and it would be one more weight over the burden that monk insisted on carrying over those weak shoulders. Nevermind the fact that his disciples had none to blame but themselves for this mess. Wukong didn’t need fiery eyes to see that outcome. Qingfeng counted twenty and Wukong spoke: “Zhenyuan.”

But a few more scars meant nothing because the Great Sage had survived until now, and he would not stop here.

Zhenyuanzi turned to him, mild surprise crossing his brows. “You again? Let me guess-”

“Hit me,” the monkey said, “that pighead can’t stand it.”

The patriarch retracted the whip and stepped away from Bajie’s bleeding form, ignoring the sounds uttered from his sealed mouth. Zhenyuanzi inspected Wukong’s battered shape, flexed a hand, and said, “If you’re attempting to move my heart, it has no effect.”

Wukong: “Tch. You talk too much… hit me .”

Wujing twisted his neck in an effort to see the patriarch from behind. “Oy! Are you sick- you’ve already hit him!”

“Don’t talk to Master that way!” Mingyue said, only to receive a demonic growl in the face.

“It does seem a tad… excessive, Master,” Qingfeng said, gaze trailing over the monkey’s injuries.

Zhenyuanzi silenced them all with a raised hand. “I keep my word. If the first disciple wishes to take the brunt, then so be it. I don’t care who takes it so long as someone does. And in his words, he was the one who instigated this in the first place.”

Wukong: “Then what are you waiting for… do it .”

“Patriarch, please,” Xuanzang started, but the desperation in his voice seemed to spur Zhenyuanzi on because as soon as the last word left, the whip came down.

It switched against Wukong’s backside and this time, he did cry out. Qingfeng took to counting once more and the first disciple’s world again melted into sharp white stabs. The whip embedded itself in the wretched pipa bone, running through those punctures until he had no recourse but to scream aloud. Zhenyuanzi worked diligently, each blow heavier than the last, as if determined to smash Wukong as he had smashed the Ginsengfruit tree.

This was Wujing’s deduction. The fish winced with every cry, the sound of leather against their eldest brother’s flesh drumming through his ears. The blows were indeed stronger than before, and as they progressed, he realized the patriarch’s rage was not directed at Wukong, but at Xuanzang. Zhenyuanzi had seen the panic in the monk’s eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his chi. And that was what drove his hand on. This was his revenge- breaking Tang Sanzang’s favored disciple.

“One hundred sixteen,” Qingfeng said.

But Zhenyuanzi knew nothing about Miss Duan and even less about the surefire hatred that had once been between master and pupil. If that monkey died, Wujing doubted their master would shed a single tear, and even if he did, he would force it back in. And even so, the Tang priest’s human heart would stretch and tear. Such was the paradox that was their Master.

Qingfeng: “One hundred twenty.”

The monkey gasped aloud, shivering with reluctance as he felt blood bleed over blood, nerves coated with a numb crunched pain. Zhenyuanzi snapped the whip back into place, cast a final glance at the cloth of Wukong’s scarlet-soaked back, and again walked into the pilgrims’ line of view.

“What will we do with them now, Master?” Qingfeng said.

“Yeah, I think they got off too easy,” Mingyue muttered.

“I’ll show you too easy!” Wujing barked, paying no heed to Xuanzang’s repeated pleads of “Wujing, stop.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Cut Master Sanzang free.”

Mingyue: “But-”

Qingfeng: “Of course.”

A wave of relief washed over the Tang priest as Qingfeng hopped up and slashed his binds with a wave of his sleeve. Mingyue stooped before him and dug away at the dirt encasing his feet, stopping when the monk had sufficient room to move. When all was finished, Xuanzang stumbled forward, limbs numb from captivity. Regaining his balance, the monk pressed his hands together, half tripping as he kowtowed.

“Thank you, patriarch,” he said, grateful, “we are truly in your debt and I assure you that-”

“Save your words for later,” Zhenyuanzi replied, taking Xuanzang’s hands in his own and pressing the whip into his palms, “I have one more task in mind.”

Confused, Xuanzang held onto the weapon, awkwardly eyeing the blood of his three disciples. “Patriarch, I don’t follow.”

Zhenyuanzi kowtowed in turn and approached the remaining prisoners. He raised a finger and counted their heads. “Venerable elder, there are four of you here, barring your fourth disciple. I’ve already gone through with your punishment, your third disciple’s, as well as your second’s. That leaves your eldest.”

Bajie’s startled cry came out as a muted groan, Wujing unable to resist a shout beside him: “What the fuck!?”

Xuanzang was too disoriented to patronize the fish’s language, trying to make sense of the words he just heard. And when it finally dawned on him what the Immortal Zhenyuan intended, he only managed a quiet, “what?”

Wukong kept his head bowed, teeth grit as his face contorted into a glare. Fucker’s not done yet? If Zhenyuanzi was this determined to kill him, he would disappoint the immortal with all his might. His screaming muscles braced themselves for what was to come, another hundred or so blows of chi-filled lashes. The pipa bone already bled and the Tang priest walked free, leaving him with nothing more to lose save the end of whatever patience he had left. His hands clenched above, wrists chafing against the rope as he imagined Zhenyuanzi’s head crushed against his palms.

“Out of words now, Great Sage?” the patriarch said with mocking politeness, pulling the monkey’s head up by the hair.

He leaned in and whispered, “Damn ape, I know my tree means nothing to you. I could skin you alive and you’d still feel nothing. But you’re not going to forget this , no, this is a lesson in empathy.”

Wukong dipped backed down when Zhenyuanzi let go and turned back to the monk. He pointed between master and disciple, and said, “You do it, Master Sanzang. One hundred and ten lashes. I’ve subtracted ten out of respect.”

Xuanzang chuckled, hoping he was at the end of some cruel joke. “Pardon? You can’t mean to ask this of me, patriarch.”

“I assure you, I’m most serious.”

“But- but this whip is nothing in my hands. Wukong won’t feel a thing.”

“I’ve exhausted the last of my preceding chi on it. With your frame, you should be able to sustain it to the last blow without pause.”

“Ah, but my arm is quite sore. Must be from the ropes- I’m afraid I-”

“Lying is unbefitting of a holy man.”

“Patriarch, please, I can’t- I won’t do this.”

The servants felt the tension in the air, eyes darting between Zhenyuanzi and Xuanzang, not a peep from either. The patriarch offered an icy glare and said, “It’s him or you, venerable elder. I have one hundred and ten lashes remaining and if you refuse, they fall on you.”

Xuanzang gulped, eyed the whip once more, and looked again to the patriarch: “Sanzang is willing.”

With that, he held out the whip, preparing to hand it back to Zhenyuanzi.

Wukong: “I killed Duan.”

Wujing gasped, rather unhelpfully.

Wukong ignored him and kept his gaze on Xuanzang, the Tang priest frozen stiff and staring back with disbelief. In a near rasp, the monkey continued: “And I loved every second... You’ve no idea how happy I was… She made a great toy.”

Xuanzang: “Wukong-”

Wukong: “And I’d do it again... I loved that fucking look on your face... You were both nothing, dust in my hands, and I’d never felt... so good !”

Xuanzang shook his head, fists visibly shaking as he lowered the whip. Wukong saw the betrayal flash over his features, not unlike their squabble in Rivermouth Village, but Xuanzang had been acting back then. Except Xuanzang had not. Wukong knew the monk’s words had been true that night, all his anger and sorrow and regret rolled into one. And he would use all that against the Tang priest now, poke under Tang Sanzang for Chen Xuanzang and however harsh his words, however illogical, would still sting the core of a mortal man.

“Wukong,” he said, voice dropping to a strained whisper, “stop it- now’s not the time-”

And the monkey laughed. And laughed.

“I’m saying this now because I can’t stand to see how stupid you are! You’re pitying me, really? Well, I don’t want it, baldy! Save it for your dead gal!”

“ Wukong -”

“You never even fucked her! Ha- ha! Then she went up in fucking flames! And you’re still whining about it- real pity you didn’t get a good fuck out of her! I would’ve loved to see that. I should’ve made you both fuck and listen to her go “ah ah.” Ah ah ah ah! You’d love that! I should have did it slower, should have chopped her up into little bits and-”

The whip smashed into his sternum, changing his laugh into a choked gasp. He sputtered out a “Ha!” and “Ha!” again and again until his laugh returned.

“Damned monkey!” Xuanzang howled, “shut up!”

He struck again, shoulders rolling and arm swiping as the lash swept through skin, blood and fire splashing out in merciless spurs. Wukong felt the sensation of wounds tearing twice over, Zhenyuanzi’s whip cutting into flesh with rapid succession, Xuanzang crying out with each hit. As his vision blurred with flashes of whip, he saw the dampening of the Tang priest’s eyes, the man’s tears brimming while he slashed on.

“I said shut up !” Xuanzang yelled, the demon’s laughter unrelenting, all too familiar to his unforgiving ears.

And- crack!- the whip fell. Wukong had bore this beating before, many times over for infinite transgressions, until the Buddha’s whip became nothing more than a naughty child’s deserving rod. And- crack!- the whip fell. But he wasn’t and had never simply been the monk’s misbehaving student. And- crack!- the whip fell. He bore the scars too, etch upon etch of mortal rage. And- crack!- the whip fell. He was Duan’s murderer and this, they both knew, and for this, Xuanzang would gladly deliver every lash. And- crack!- the whip fell.

And- crack!- the whip fell- and -crack!- the whip fell- and -crack!- the whip fell- and -crack!- the whip fell- and -crack!- the whip fell- and -crack!- the whip fell.

And- crack!- the whip fell.

Taken aback by the monk’s unexpected display, Mingyue turned to Qingfeng and said, “Hey, how many is it?”

Qingfeng stared with bulging eyes, mesmerized by the scene playing out. After hearing his companion’s inquiry, the servant started and said, “How many? My apologies. I lost count. I shall start anew.”

Wujing had long since lost count, gaze trained on the unbroken movement of the Tang priest’s arm, that whip landing on Wukong’s body in a continuous flurry of blood and snaps. It struck everywhere-anywhere, spraying red and parting skin as the monkey laughed and screamed, features thrust in agony. After a final crack across that mangled chest, Xuanzang pulled the whip back and dropped to his knees, a shaky mess of pooling sweat and streaming tears.

Mingyue: “So how many?”

Qingfeng: “I can only estimate-”

Zhenyuanzi put a hand on Qingfeng’s shoulder, effectively quieting the boy as he went to stand by Xuanzang’s side: “One hundred and fifty lashes. That was impressive, venerable elder. I’m almost moved.”

Xuanzang said nothing, hand still coiled over the bloodied whip as he heaved for breath. Zhenyuanzi knelt, pried the lash from his grip, and said, “Qingfeng, Mingyue, guide Master Sanzang back to his quarters. That ends our session for today.”

“ Today!? ” Wujing said, “what else do you want!?”

“The venerable elder must abide by Master’s rules,” Qingfeng replied, coming to support the Tang priest by the right elbow, Mingyue holding up the monk from Xuanzang’s left. “You have no more say in the matter.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Fear not, venerable elder. You were most graceful today and I’ll let you continue on your travels soon enough. But be aware that you’d best return my dear tree before you reach the west, else we’ll have to repeat today’s events.

“Yeah, live with it!” Mingyue said.

Wukong: “Zhenyuan, that’s… it ?”

The monkey’s chin slipped down, voice harshed to an ugly whisper as he struggled to stay atop the blood and pain. He made a noise somewhere between a snort and groan. “Why didn’t ya… say so? Ha, that’s all you want?”

Zhenyuanzi’s breath caught, a defensive flash of hope flying by his cold eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Great Sage . Are you implying you can restore the ginsengfruit tree?”

Wukong: “What’s… what’s it look like?”

“How long?” the patriarch said quietly, approaching Wukong on tentative steps. “How long will it take you?”

“Midnight,” the monkey said.

Bajie: “Mm mm mm!” (“He sure can!”)

“Don’t believe that ape!” Mingyue protested, “they’re all cheats, Master, every last one of them!”

“Quiet!” Zhenyuanzi hissed, without casting the servant a single glance. “Monkey, I’ll give you one chance. Come back by midnight or I’m lopping off your companions’ heads.”

Wukong: “Deal.”

The patriarch snapped his fingers and the first disciple’s binds came undone. Wukong followed suit by pulling his legs out of the earth, stumbling forward, and all but collapsing onto Zhenyuanzi’s shoulder. As he gathered his breath in a daze, the monkey whispered into the patriarch’s ear: “Take care of my master. Feed him, clothe him, let him sleep… if I see so much… as an extra bruise… I’m razing your temple to the ground. Got it?”

Zhenyuanzi: “Understood. Remember the tree or you won’t have a master to come back to.”

With that, the patriarch stepped aside, Wukong sliding off his shoulder and buckling to the ground. Trembling, the monkey forced himself up to his full height and turned to his brothers, blood dripping as he spoke. “I’ll be back. Stay put.”

He limped away, snatched his cloak from the nearby ground, and threw it over his shoulders once more. The as-you-would cudgel dug into the earth as he shook the limp off, walk balanced by the makeshift crutch. Back turned, the Tang priest kept his head downcast, not saying a word as his first disciple descended the stairs of Wuzhuang Temple.

“Qingfeng, Mingyue, stop standing around,” the patriarch ordered, “take Master Sanzang to his room and come back to guard his disciples. I must prepare for that ape’s return.”

Qingfeng: “Of course, Master.”

Wujing exchanged final glowers with Mingyue as the servants led the monk back to his quarters, the Immortal Zhenyuan leaving in the opposite way. And once the courtyard was clear, the fish rubbed his wrists and turned to Bajie, eyes unable to miss the blood left by their eldest brother on the ground.

“Mm- AH,” Bajie said, lips finally parting as the seal lost its hold and a plethora of noises tumbled out of his mouth.

The pig shouted a good few more times into the air, cracked his neck, and said, “My, my, my! My tongue tongue tongue’s on fire!”

Wujing felt the wound on his chest close, far too slowly and far too painfully for his liking. “Your ‘tongue tongue tongue’?”

Bajie: “Don’t don’t don’t mock me, fishhead! You you you got off way too easy compared to the rest of us!”

The anger subsided, Bajie took a moment to hiss in pain and shake his head. “Baldy’s a harsh fellow,” he said sorrowfully, “doesn’t he know that if he kills the boss, all his duties will fall on me ?”

Wujing: “What, like you’ll take them on?”

Bajie: “Well, no, but but but it’s annoying to think about. Unless… no no no matter, bet baldy’s wanted to do this for a long time.”

Wujing scoffed. “You and the boss are the same: brainless. Baldy’s a deep actor, and that’s it. Had to convince Zhenyuan to leave us alone. You think he’s stupid enough to believe eldest brother would bring up Miss Duan for no reason? He wasn't crying over that.”

Bajie looked at the beating sun, grey clouds drifting into its fading path. “So what you’re saying is-”

“He was crying because he had to hurt big brother.”

Ao Lie brushed a hand over the bushes in his way, feet jumping forward and backward as he debated whether or not to return to Wuzhuang. He had stalked around Zhenyuanzi’s temple long enough to see the tree fall and the dragon’s skin whip. And fled immediately when that pig tried to pin the blame on him, for he had no intention of being made into the patriarch’s whip.

If the Immortal Zhenyuan could hold his own against Sun Wukong, then Ao Lie would surely be no match for the enraged patriarch and escaping execution from the western sea would have been for naught. It would be best for him to put aside any lingering fondness for Xuanzang and return to the sea- he had the last ginseng fruit and there would be no need to look back.

And as the prince finalized his choice, he heard a familiar voice speak in a husky rasp behind him.

Wukong: “Where’s Puti?”

Chapter Text

Ao Lie spun around, nearly tripping over in shock when he once more found himself face to face with the Monkey King, or rather, what remained of him. Slouched over his staff, Wukong leered at the dragon with fevered eyes, face smeared with what could only be blood. Ao Lie’s gaze was unable to pass that dust-colored cloak, but he had no trouble seeing the dark red clinging to the shredded cloth underneath.

“Big brother,” the prince said, “what- what happened?”

“Nothing to do with you,” Wukong replied hoarsely, “take me to Puti.”

The Immortal Zhenyuan did this . Resisting a shudder over the fate that he narrowly skipped, Ao Lie looked to the west and said, “But big brother, I thought you’d wanted to cut relations with Master. That being the case, I was on my way home-”

Wukong removed a quivering hand and jabbed a finger into Ao Lie’s chest, touch hard enough to bruise. “He can revive the tree. My master’s life depends on this. Now tell me- where is he?”

Ao Lie stared back at him, a hundred plans dashing through his head and none coming out. He thought of taking a gamble and running- flying- off, in the high hopes that the monkey would be unable to take chase in his condition. But instinct told the prince Wukong would slay him where he stood if he so much as breathed a word of refusal. So Ao Lie swallowed his reluctance, shut his eyes, and said, “Kunlun Mountain.”

Lost in meditation, Xuanzang sat atop his made bed, cross-legged as he knocked a mortar and pestle together, having requested the objects from Qingfeng. The heart sutra crossed his mind a thousand times front and back, an empty chant on his soundless lips. He would not think and yet he did, so he would deign to think, and think again, caught in a web of words that came and went.

Duan was gone. And Wukong had gone. These thoughts circled in and out of his head, its splattered bruises bandaged over, near forgotten. The mortar was heavy in his hand, as it should be, a replacement for the whip that had fallen upon his first disciple. But he could control the mortar and the pestle did not bleed. His pace was even, gentle, soothed, as if smoothing out every wound and scar that ravaged his student’s flesh.

Allowing a moment of respite, the Tang priest set the mortar down and turned his head, slightly enough to gaze out the patterned window. The clouds looked as if they were ready to part, sunlight eager to fade in from behind.

And years ago, the clouds looked as if they were ready to part, sunlight eager to fade in from behind. The rain had passed the day before and he saw it fit to travel again. He crawled out from his place under the barrow, newfound robes stained with mud, and replaced the crooked hat. The marketplace was crowded, its masses paying him no mind as he wandered through.

He hopped along, two limbs first, two behind, until he stopped and looked. They walked on two. So he pushed himself up and moved with two paws, unable to shake that slouch. His hands closed in of their own accord as he bowed his head. He’d come across these creatures-people-humans before, staring from afar, and most recently, mingled in. But they’d screamed and departed, leaving behind nothing but their discarded garments.

How funny, he’d thought, that they covered their bare bottoms up. And how fun it was to do so too. And how fun it was to make them scream.

But he did not want to make them scream now. He needed them. They were friends with the celestials he so desperately sought.

And as he stood eyeing a fuzzy peach, a faint pain pressed on his loose tail. He turned, looked up, and heard the man scream. The stranger removed that foot from his tail and ran, repeated words echoing about: “Yao jing! Yao jing!”

He held out a hand, willing in vain for the man to return. Wait, he wanted to say, but of their words, he knew none, and could only repeat what he’d just heard, low and guttural from his primate’s throat: “Yao… Jing.”

The onlookers stared at the screaming man, if they took notice at all, and the crowd parted in a collective shout. He stayed where he stood, yao jing on his tongue, and the next thing he saw was one of their children, pointing at him with a wide open mouth. How strange the child looked, so much like his own underlings. The screams went on, faster, longer, as if bleeding into speech.

A stone smashed into his head, breaking into four. Dazed, he blinked away the dull ache it left. Another sailed along. And another.

And another.

He caught the next and shoved it through his mouth, teeth crunching down in rebellion as he took his leave. The stones rained against his back as he ran off, certain he was no longer welcome in this square. Save dust and mud, the rocks left no mark: he had a hard head.

And long after he left that town behind, he learned what that word meant- yao jing- demon. Demon, demon , he would repeat, me .

X

Loneliness had never been a problem for him. He’d come into this world alone and he’d have stayed alone if not for the the demons of Huaguo. And even after they took him in, it had taken him time to get into their graces, and even longer into their good graces, and by chance, he found himself king. And how good it felt then, to be- he daren’t say loved.

Regardless, he was alone in the human’s world, hopping from village to village in the unrelenting hope that he would find what he wanted. They traded with gold and silver and whatever else they had on hand. And thus, he said he would too.

It took him thirty-eight days to gain a handful of silver. And it took him one hour to lose it all.

He’d seen a monkey perform on the streets, tethered to its master’s hand as it flipped and flipped. It hadn’t been one of his kind- it was an animal through and through, not a demon like them. Baby’s play, he had thought. How easy! He set himself up in the corner, for this village cared little for oddities, and performed for a nonexistent master. Cartwheels, somersaults, backflips, two-legged hops, and a month went by.

“Good! Good!” the onlookers had cheered as they sprayed him with their precious pieces.

And then, he met the woodcutter. The man had walked past, hunched over from the logs on his back, and a tune in his lips. He had looked so rugged and poor, but those words had been in his song: where the celestials dwell .

The demon grabbed his wrist immediately and asked, “you- you’re immortal?”

Woodcutter: “You can talk!?”

He nodded, mimicked a bow, and hugged the man’s legs. He was sick of waiting. “That song- you’re immortal?”

“No, I’m not. Mister monkey, why are you asking me this? Are you a demon?”

“Yes,” he said, grip tightened, “don’t run. That song, from where?”

“Why do you wanna know so much?”

And sensing the fear in the woodcutter’s face, he’d pressed his face against those legs and said, best as he could, “I come, far away. Looking for celestials. Immortals. I do anything.”

He had tried to sound as sincere as he could, because he was sincere. The woodcutter gulped, helped him up, and said, “I can tell you, sure. But I’m so hungry. I’ll need some money...”

He’d been delighted to hear that. And so, he traded all he had with the woodcutter for where the celestials dwelled-- Three Star Cave, a little ways north, past the mountain and two towns down. How kind these humans are, he’d thought.

Some days later, he learned there were three towns down, the mountain was a hill, and there was no cave.

X

He took to hiding his face in the little town, its name, he could not read. The words looked like scribbles to him. He wrapped himself up in loose scarves and lost cloaks, replacing them come rain, come dirt. He had nowhere else to go. The journey home seemed too tiring a task and the path ahead went everywhere to nowhere.

He satisfied his growling stomach with stolen fruits and the like, slept under wagons and tables, passed the time with honing his words. He’d thought of doing more, of perhaps decimating the village in his anger, but instinct told him the celestial was near.

And then, that girl had tripped over him, stealing his scarf in her wake and running off.

“Good job! Good job!” another man cried at her heels, but he’d been too slow.

The man slipped, bumping into his chest, and knocking them both to the ground. And when they’d sat up, each had a good look of the other. The man was gaunt, dark hair a texture of coarse bristles, a light beard lining his square jaw. He knew how he appeared to the man, but the scream he expected never came.

“You… alright?” the man asked.

He’d nodded and rather unthinkingly, said, “Thank you.”

“Oh- you can talk!”

“Yes. I learn fast.”

“So you’re a-”

He’d learned by now not to say demon. “Monkey.” It was half true.

The man had more to ask him, but he didn’t want to waste time. He crawled to his feet and turned to leave, when the man asked from behind, “Where are you from? Never heard of talking monkeys.”

“Far away, across the sea. I came here to find celestials. I’m looking for immortality. But I don’t think I’ll find it any time soon.”

And yet instinct still told him he would not fail. After he took his first step forward, he heard the man cry, “Wait!”

He turned.

The man stared at him for a full half moment, smiled, and said, “I… I’m immortal.”

And heart racing with joy and dread, he blinked back tears and said, “Who are you?”

That man had indeed never seen a talking monkey before. That man had been poor beyond his wits, and so, when he saw the opportunity, he took it. The animal was a goldmine in front of him and when the creature turned, he knew the dumb thing had believed his every word.

PUTI’S TEAHOUSE was carved into the wooden beam behind them. That monkey couldn’t read. But he could.

“Puti,” the man said, “they call me Puti the Immortal.”

X

Puti and his two disciples lived in a makeshift tent built at the end of a dusty alleyway. According to his new master, they lived in such shabby conditions because Puti was hiding from the Jade Emperor. You see, that man had said, teaching the secret to immortality is forbidden. And he’d oohed and aahhed at Puti’s every word.

His senior students were named Xiao Wa and Xiao Hua, sisters no older than eight and nine. Xiao Hua had been the one who stole his scarf. And together, they poked and prodded him like some new toy. They’d never seen a monkey before, let alone one that walked and talked.

“He’s so ugly,” Xiao Wa said, “chief, is he sick?”

“Who cares,” Xiao Hua said, “hey, can you pick my fleas?”

Then she’d bent her head and instinctively, he fingered through her fuzzy mess of hair. As he swallowed her bugs, Puti took Xiao Wa aside and said, “Wawa, we talked about this- it’s master , remember?”

Xiao Wa: “Master? But chief, we’re not-”

Puti placed a hand over her mouth, turned back to him, and asked, “Do you have a name, disciple?”

“At Mount Huaguo, they called me the Handsome Monkey King!”

Puti: “That won’t do- we’ve got to get you a proper name.”

“Can’t we just call him ‘monkey’?” Xia Wa said.

“Monkey!” Puti cried, “that’s it!”

He pointed at the demon and grinned. “You’re an ape, so we’ll go with that- take off the animal mark. Call you Sun! And-” Puti laughed. “Now our pockets’ll never be empty! We won’t be afraid of that anymore. That’s what you’ll be- Wukong- won’t fear empty pockets.”

Sun Wukong.

He repeated the name in his mouth, testing the sounds. Yes, this name he liked. And instantly, he dropped to all fours and kowtowed at Puti’s feet. “Thank you, Master, thank you!”

“Sun Wukong! Sun Wukong!” the sisters chanted in glee, their satisfied Master chuckling in delight as the monkey hopped and grinned.

Among humans, this was the happiest he had ever been. He was none the wiser.

X

Xiao Wa and Xiao Hua were masters of martial arts, or so Sun Wukong assumed, because Master always tasked them with picking pockets with utmost stealth. And while they robbed, the monkey would perform. He learned a variety of skills under Puti. He could juggle balls, he could sing Opera, and he could conquer any tongue twisters that came his way. Anything Master asked, he would do.

In their spare time, Master taught him how to care for wayward plants, for Master was an excellent gardener. He expected no less from an esteemed immortal.

And if he could read, he would know Master billed him as the HANDSOME MONKEY KING: WILD WONDER.

Sun Wukong was an excellent student, showered with Puti’s praise at every turn, and he soon learned that he loved the praise as well. Their audience loved him too. Sometimes, they loved him so much, fruit would sail his way, and never failing, he would catch them in his mouth.

“Back off! He’s not for sale!” was a phrase Master often said.

And then, they bought a house, a cheap little settlement that had two rooms, a fireplace, and a little strip of garden for Master’s tiny plants. At night, the sisters huddled in their blankets, for now they could afford blankets, and he would sleep in a box made of wooden bars. According to Puti, the box would hone his mind and prepare him for the immortal’s ways.

A box, Sun Wukong thought to himself, not a cage.

The Great Puti would never lock his students in a cage.

X

Sun Wukong still felt very mortal. Their little house could afford pots and pans and tea kettles now. He did more than juggle and chat in their daily shows. He jumped through fire, smashed stones over his skull, swallowed daggers, balanced on wheels, spun umbrellas on the tip of his nose, and did it all while singing. It was all part of his training.

But it seemed to go nowhere, even as Puti’s garden grew. Sun Wukong wondered if Puti deemed him unworthy.

When he asked Master, the great Puti said, “Have patience, disciple. I’ve taught you so many tricks and I’ve got more to share.”

Then Master had left the room and returned with a long beard stuck to his chin, an orange balanced on his nose. “See this? This is the magic of transformation!”

And Sun Wukong had gaped in awe of Master’s skill. But still, he felt as if he might as well have learned nothing.

And at night, he’d asked Xiao Hua, “when will Master teach us immortality?”

And forgetting the chief’s schemes, she’d yawned and said, “Wukong, there’s no such thing.”

And for the first time, he was seized by a dim sting, greater than any pain his body had ever felt. It pricked and grew, gnawing at him until he could take no more. It was a sensation he would come to know many times more. Betrayal.

And for the first time, he realized the box was a cage.

And then, he’d confronted Puti. Master told him not to worry and said he would pass the secret of immortality to him soon. How soon? He wondered.

But instinct told him to trust Puti.

X

There had been no instinct. What he felt was the first signs of illness. Because he did fall ill, no prompt at all. According to Xiao Wa, he had simply fainted in the middle of Puti’s show, without fanfare or the like. He had never been ill before.

He had seen it in Mount Huaguo- it had been why he left. Then the humans were no different.

The fever ran its course for seven nights, and he remembered little save the fact that it was the first time he slept in a bed. It was soft, unlike the stone in water curtain cave, unlike the bottom of his cage. It was Puti’s bed, the Master’s bed.

“Don’t die on me, come on, please,” Master had begged, spoonfeeding him bitter powder day in and day out.

And then, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, Sun Wukong wanted nothing more than to go home. In that moment, he cared nothing for immortality, nothing for that cage, nothing for his illness. “Let me go,” he’d pleaded, “please, let me go, let me go.”

Puti: “I can’t do that. I’m sorry, Wukong, I can’t do that- I’m sorry, I’m sorry …”

“They’re waiting for me,” he sobbed, “we’re dying, one by one, and I said I’d save them. I told them we could all live forever. I didn’t want to lie to them- please, let me go…”

“Wukong, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

And when he awoke, Xiao Wa and Xiao Hua were snoring at his bedside, Puti nowhere to be found. It was the first time he felt that other pain, a pleasant sort of ache that told him he was more than some circus monkey. Puti returned with a hand of bananas and a yellowing book falling apart at the binds.

Puti: “I went to the market today. Look what I found, disciple!”

And as Sun Wukong played with the bananas, too tired to peel, Puti put the book in his lap and said, “I think you’re ready.”

THE IMMORTAL’S SEVENTY TWO MOVES had come at a cheap price, sold by a man who wanted enough money to buy half a hot-cake. But in Puti’s opinion, Sun Wukong didn’t need to know that. And it was then that he decided to teach the monkey how to read.

X

He had always been a fast learner. When Xiao Hua turned twelve, Sun Wukong could read every sign and flyer that passed their eyes. And he dazzled Puti’s audience with his literary prowess. He liked making the master proud.

And with what little free time he had, he studied the book Puti had gifted him. Master told him to follow its teachings. Then he would become a great immortal, just like Puti. Xiao Wa sat by and watched the monkey read, and eventually, she watched him act.

He failed to mimic its pages many times at first. And then, he didn’t.

Perhaps Puti’s training had honed him for this day, because rather gradually, Sun Wukong realized he had mastered half of the seventy two transformations. He knew the methods of Taoism, he knew the essentials of chi, and most importantly, he knew how to change his body at will. It was a freeing sensation he had never known.

And he never wanted to go back to before.

When he showed Puti, the Master had been speechless while Xiao Wa clapped in delight. He morphed into a mouse, a fly, a bear, a fish, a bird, and so on. He had been sloppy at first, with monkey’s tails hanging here and there, but Puti had allowed him to practice during their shows. And the more he tried, the more that worked, until eventually, he had a seamless line of animals at his fingertips.

And then Xiao Hua had said, “Wukong, try turning human!”

Xia Wa: “Please, Wukong, we wanna see!”

So he tried. The girls had screamed in disgust with the first attempt, rolled their eyes at the second, and half-heartedly clapped at the last. Golden fur bristled over grey and hair receded from a manlike face. Again, Puti had been astonished, but Sun Wukong had not been satisfied with this form.

He wanted more. And now he realized, he had always wanted more. He wanted all seventy-two.

He went to the market with the sisters once. There had been no scarf and there had been no leash. Back hunched, he’d walked at their heels, a tussle of black hair on his smooth face, hairless body hidden in robes half his size. And save the markings of a demon painted over his skin, there was little to distinguish between him and the crowd.

Upon their return, the girls had giggled around him in joy as he laughed in triumph. Then they’d tried to pin that his new hair back, and there had been no option but failure.

X

Then Puti had sent the four of them packing, on the grounds that heaven was after his head yet again. The other, less important, reason was the town’s accusations that Master was parading a monster about their grounds. Don’t worry about it, Puti had told him, we’ll just start anew.

And as he pulled the sisters and Puti in a cheap rickshaw, Sun Wukong looked over the brim of his straw hat, and noticed just how much taller he was than Puti. As a monkey, he hadn’t paid it mind. As a human, he wondered why.

“Master,” he’d asked, “why are we traveling like this? You’re a great immortal.”

And holding one of his precious orchids in a clay vase, Puti said, “You worry too much, Wukong. We’re doing this so the Jade Emperor’s men will think we’re just normal mortals. When we reach a new home, I’ll teach you how I really travel.”

Puti pointed at the sky. “Immortals fly! I even have a special cloud of my own.”

Sun Wukong: “Does it have a name?”

Puti: “A name? Uh, of course! I call it the… the… summer… somersault cloud!”

Then they arrived at their new home, a rural village that had never heard of celestials or the like. And again, Puti wowed them with his disciple’s skills. And again, they bought a small settlement, for the Master was a careful spender. But this one came with a crooked fence, then deemed gate by Puti, the start of better days.

At night, Sun Wukong resumed his monkey's shape and again slept in the cage (for his training, Puti had said. For his safety. But he would soon learn it was for the others' safety instead, a lesson that came too late, because the cage made no difference, with or without).

But Puti made good on his promise to fly. Master had called him out one day, told him to close his eyes in a field, and open when he gave the order. When the monkey opened his eyes, a kite was flying in the air, no doubt a transformed Puti sailing with the somersault cloud.

X

Xiao Hua and Xiao Wa were orphans, ruffian toddlers scrambling through streets for food and money when Puti first met them. Where they came from, the girls couldn’t say. The streets had been their life as long as they could remember. Sun Wukong wondered if they too hatched from rocks.

You’re like us, Xiao Hua had said, Wukong, you, me and WaWa, we’re all the same. Nobody wanted us except rocks.

Master wants us, he’d said in response. The sisters were less like disciples and more like daughters to the Master, for he could think of no other reason why Puti would drag them around when he seemed to have nothing to teach the pair.

Because nobody wanted him either, Xiao Wa had said.

And he’d laughed. Of course nobody would want Puti in their family- who would be able to control their jealousy against the likes of such a great immortal? Then the girls had laughed, balanced on the monkey’s shoulder as he tried to sail through clouds. Xiao Hua needed five stitches after that first attempt.

But Sun Wukong had a hard head. It was perfect for cloud-walking.

X

He hadn’t fought in a long time, not since leaving Mount Huaguo and its nation of demons. And then, he did. Master had asked, for Master never missed an opportunity to increase their fortune. In the middle of that dusty arena, he’d torn dogs and roosters and a few men apart. They’d shredded like paper in his hands.

Puti winced more times than not, but pride had been on the Master’s face. Sun Wukong supposed it was worth it. He didn’t care for his dead opponents or the little injuries they managed to leave him. In fact, the bloodshed reminded him of how much he missed it.

But Xiao Wa had cried. She’d ducked behind her sister and both hid in a corner when they returned home. They had never looked at him that way before, as if seeing for the first time that Sun Wukong was no more than a bloodthirsty demon and not their pet ape.

When he approached, they shrunk back. And as Puti tried to coax them out of that corner, the monkey dragged himself back to the cage and locked its door.

And the smell of blood bothered him all night, teasing, mocking. He awoke in the middle of the night, stirred out of his fuzzy sleep by Puti moving about the cage. Master dabbed at his side with a strip of stained cloth. He hadn’t imagined the blood after all.

Puti: “Knew that bastard stabbed you somewhere. You should tell me if you’re hurt.”

But he hadn’t said a word. The wound- it barely stung- would have fully healed before the hour ended anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Puti mumbled, “we won’t do this again.”

But he’d fallen asleep by then. Master was gone at dawn.

X

And then, they had died. A mudslide rushed through the village and stopped at the end of the nearest hill. Puti’s home. Then, like a snap of dead flame, the four of them were gone. But to Sun Wukong’s surprise, death was strangely painless, or perhaps he had been too deep in sleep to notice.

When he next awoke, he was being pushed into a line behind Puti, the Master so terrified he could barely stand. They were flanked by two ghastly men, one with the head of an ox and the other the face of a horse, dressed in what could only be officers’ uniforms, black, silver, and blue. Sun Wukong hoped he never looked that terrible during his first foray into transforming.

He eyed the chains that bound his feet and hands, linked to Puti’s binds.

“Master, where are we?” he asked.

Ox-Head: “The Underworld.”

“How!?”

Horse-face produced a thin scroll from his robes and unfurled the paper with a flick of blue flame. “Here, it says asphyxiation via supernatural disaster, for Zheng Chozhi. For Sun Wukong, wound inflammation via malnourishment, common for macaque demons.”

The Underworld? He was dead . And whatever nonsense that had sprouted from Horse-face’s mouth made him see red. A bout of anger burst through the demon’s veins. He pounced on their captors, chains and all. He had done too much to escape death, and now they say he walked right into it, commonly . This, he absolutely refused to accept.

He screeched and cursed as he flung his attacks, Ox-Head and Horse-Face crying out as they tried to subdue him. But their panic fueled him on, and after several wriggles and twists, Sun Wukong managed to break from his chains and dig claws into Ox-Head’s throat. He squeezed until he saw the black spread in the officer’s eyes, only relenting to dodge a blow from behind. He turned to kick Horse-face in the nose, and as the underworld minion reeled back, the monkey struck again, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed him into Ox-Head’s form like a club.

“King Yan!” Ox-Head cried, pulling himself out of the fray as Horse-face joined him with cries for backup. “Help! A soul’s acting up!”

Sun Wukong jumped to and fro, banging his fists on the ground as he screeched in primal rage. If he wasn’t so sure they were undead, he would have ripped their heads off. With his bare teeth.

Puti seemed to know this too because when the monkey calmed down long enough to look him in the eye, the Master was pale beyond pale. Master, he had thought, Master Puti, let this be one long nightmare.

Sun Wukong: “Zheng Chozhi… Puti is immortal. Then why are you here?”

Puti- Chozhi - placed his chained hands in front of his chest in defense. “Wukong, I- I can explain.”

So the monkey waited. But the explanation never came. And as the silence drew on, he noticed how murky hell was, the faded red and blue clouding eternal grey. It was dull and somber, exactly as he imagined, and perhaps worse because that feeling had returned, the bitter ache that he’d always known and ignored under Puti. He was the fool in the end, to have even thought Puti regarded him as more than some freakshow, that the sisters regarded him as more than a pet, that he regarded Puti as some sire he never had.

But he had a task at hand now. He yanked Puti to his feet, broke the chains, and said, “ Master , come. I’m going to learn immortality, and you can watch.”

And then, he changed into a fly and zipped in the direction Ox-Head and Horse-Face had gone, their neon blood lighting up a path through hell. Puti was not far behind, following with shouts of, “Wukong, wait!” all the while.

When he found the grim-faced judge, Sun Wukong morphed into himself again and grinned a nasty grin. He felt very nasty, a sense of demonic ill he hadn’t felt since the days before Water Curtain Cave. The judge sat at his high desk, ghoulish face lined with harsh shadows beneath his dark hat, robes shimmering with white and black as he flipped through the book at his hands. And in it, pages trailed eternal, the dead and living marked herein.

The judge of the dead noticed them too late. Puti flashed him a sheepish smile as the monkey leaped onto the table, kicked him back, and snatched the brush from his hands, slashing ink all about. He had never written before.

As the underworld’s guards ran towards him, he flipped and acted- SUN WUKONG -DEATH YEAR gone- AGING STOPPED. THE TRIBES OF FLOWER FRUIT MOUNTAIN: with a fast hand, he scribbled every name he knew from Mount Huaguo, of every macaque and ape and chimp and whatever else there was in his kingdom of monkeys. He left none out and filled the page, calligraphy looking like a dying child’s pen.

Then Puti rammed into him from behind and stole the brush, hurriedly scribbling ZHENG CHOZHI - PUTI- AGING STOPPED- DEATH YEAR gone- within its margins. And before he closed the book, Sun Wukong said, “Write in Xiao Hua and Xiao Wa!”

“Those aren’t their real names!”

“What are their names!?”

“I don’t know!”

“Try anyway!”

Puti finished his last scribbles and slammed the book shut. He flung himself onto the monkey’s back as Sun Wukong kicked the book and cackled in joy, dodging a flying spear.

“Who do you think you are!?” the guard yelled.

“Sun Wukong,” the monkey cried, “the Handsome Monkey King! And from now on, you’d all best call me Grandpa Sun!”

Puti: “I’m his teacher! Puti the Immortal!”

Before they could view more of the underworld’s outrage, Puti clung to his disciple and felt him leap high. Hell had no more hold over them, their names altered and reversal impossible. Sun Wukong pushed into the air, drunk on power, knowing himself immortal at long long last, and pushed and pushed .

Until he found himself clawing through dirt and mud and debris as he burst from the remains of their earthly home, fence the only thing standing. Puti’s head popped up beside him, both gasping for fresh air. After a good bout of coughs and sputters, they dug through the mud for whatever they could salvage. He’d been too overjoyed to argue with Puti.

Then, everything fell apart.

He turned to see Puti hovering over two heads in the dirt, Xiao Wa and Xiao Hua stiff and cold underneath.

X

He felt the underworld’s chill brush off his shoulders when he returned to the sun. But the cold remained. He was terribly cold.

“Did it work?” Puti asked, still covered in dirt as he rocked Xiao Wa’s body on his knees. Xiao Hua’s had been too mangled to touch. “Did you speak to them?”

He’d gone face to face with King Yanluo himself, that giant scowl forever engrained in his mind, the red flesh and long beard not far behind. Death, he would never unsee. He’d ravaged hell again before crawling back up, too far gone to stand for their accusations. His shouts would have been pointless.

“I did,” he said, near shaking. It was terribly cold. “Master, I did.”

“So-so where are they?”

“Dead. Their souls were already rewritten when we found the book. They’ll be reincarnated soon, far from here. Judge said it’d take at least a hundred years- this was only their second life.”

“But-”

“I’m not done.” His voice quivered. “It takes so long because they died from a demonic entity. The landslide, it was caused by a demon.”

“Who did it? Wukong, we’ve got to get out of here if he’s so powerful-”

“Me.”

The monkey pointed at himself, afraid to hear his own words. “That demon- I- had too much negative energy. In my sleep, I must have… the village… Xiao Hua, Xiao Wa…”

He was crying. He hadn’t cried in so long. Or perhaps Puti was. The Master, the conman, was crying too. And the sun was so high, devastatingly bright as it shined over the ruins of his making. All he ever wanted, he now had. Seventy-two transformations, longevity, fame. He had it all.

Puti: “Wukong, go.”

He had it all.

“Please.”

All.

“Just go!”

His back slammed against the weakened gate, and as he recovered from the sudden blow, he looked to see Puti’s outstretched palm. He chuckled. “Master, I thought you didn’t know magic.”

Zheng Chozi rubbed a ripped sleeve over his eyes. “That was kung fu.”

The demon stood up and grabbed the front of Puti’s clothes. But murder had not been on his mind. He was too tired, too cold. He let go of Puti, gentle, slumped to his knees, and kowtowed once. It was the last he would give the man once known as his Master.

Sun Wukong: “I’m going.”

Puti buried the sisters as the monkey left. He’d hopped on a cloud, in too much turmoil to sail, and let it flip through the air, tumbling all the way back to Mount Huaguo. Sun Wukong named it the Somersault Cloud and when the mountain of flower and fruits came into view, he realized he was not cold- he hadn’t felt this since he saw that old monkey die.

Grief.

X

Zheng Chozi had been one in a hundred disciples of a Daoist with humble repute. The Master herself sent him away for she thought him too greedy. He made his living as first a mercenary before deeming himself too cowardly for the job, then as an acrobat, until his troupe was accused of treason by the powers that be, for Zhen Chozi was a profoundly unlucky man. And soon, he found it much easier to live as a hustler on the street. But now Zheng was dead and gone.

Puti the Immortal built his school above the ruins of that hillside village, a white mansion stacked to the brim with gold and silver. He tailored it with jade and marble and whatever else he felt fitting for a celestial, for he was offered tribute from far and wide. THE IMMORTAL’S SEVENTY-TWO MOVES was considered a holy text within the school. He was the infamous Sun Wukong’s teacher and that alone inspired their awe. And at the hill that once stood his little home, he grew a Puti tree.

His first disciple returned to Mount Huaguo and reclaimed his kingdom from the demons that invaded. It didn’t take long for Demon King Sun Wukong to rise to fame: he’d fought his way through hell, robbed the Eastern Dragon King, and joined the brotherhood of the six-now-seven demon lords. His kingdom knew him for seventy-two transformations, the somersault cloud, and the Stilling Pillar of the Seven Seas.

Whatever had caused their fall-out, neither would say.

On the hundredth day of the hundredth year since their parting, Sun Wukong saw Puti once more. He refused to say a word. And the pair had sat under the Puti tree, ten times the size of any normal tree for now Puti did know magic. And the little hill where they had once lived was a now a mountain that stretched towards the sky, Puti’s school built along a cave-mouth within three peaks.

Puti’s beard flowed to his waist, now as white as his hair, and the only thing whiter than both was the flowery robes that clung to his frame. He was the Great Immortal and his pockets would never be empty- it showed.

Then, Sun Wukong flew off without a second glance. And a heavenly messenger welcomed him back to Mount Huaguo; his name was Tai Bai Jing Xing, the Great White celestial, sent by the Jade Emperor.

Everyone knew what happened next. What happened next was no secret. And it became a tale that blended in with so many other tales. It told of how Sun Wukong became the Celestial Horse Groomer and his ensuing tantrum, of how he titled himself the Great Sage Equaling Heaven, of how he single-handedly devoured the Queen Mother’s peaches and razed half of heaven, of how he waged war on the Jade Emperor, of how he almost won, of how Erlang Shen the Illustrious Sage brought him down, of how he lived through Laozi’s Samadhi Fire, and of how he lost a wildcard bet to Tathagata Buddha.

Tathagata’s palm lay over him for five-hundred years until the arrival of a monk named Chen.

Ao Lie clutched the somersault cloud, watching the monkey as he forced it through yet another bout of speed, apparently having forgotten about the passenger in tow. The dragon had suggested shifting into his true shape and flying them to the mountain himself, but Wukong hadn’t taken kindly to the idea.

“You’re not running off from this,” the monkey had said, or more accurately, growled.

But Ao Lie had no doubt he would have provided a smoother ride than Wukong’s cloud, its somersaults rendered twice as haphazard thanks to the demon’s screaming wounds. The monkey could barely walk, let alone fly, and Ao Lie had been sure they would crash and die before he even saw Kunlun’s shape.

Ao Lie: “Will egg- the venerable elder appreciate this, big brother?”

The cloud pressed forward, momentarily blinding them with mist before it parted to reveal the shadowed peaks of Kunlun Mountain, jagged and foreboding as they towered over green and grey.

“Big brother?”

Wukong squinted, raised a hand to shade his eyes, and looked down. Four pagodas rested on each peak, spiraled with red and gold, walls so faded they nearly melted into the mountain’s earthly flesh. Surrounded by a clay-clad troop, a man stood in the center, the tip of his silver helmet glinting under shadow, a blood red scarf looping about his golden armor, and a miniature pagoda in his arms. The face was the same as he remembered- severe, bearded, and drooping with stress.

“Big brother?”

Five hundred years, and here they were again.

Wukong: “So when were you going to tell me Heavenly King Li was involved? Puti’s in that tower, isn’t he?”

The cloud came to an abrupt stop as Ao Lie winced and squeaked, “That’s why I needed you.”

And upon seeing the monkey’s silent glare, he continued, “Master’s been arrested for teaching immortality in exchange for fortune.”

“Is there more to this story?”

“He wasn’t really teaching immortality. He cheated enough bitter souls for the underworld to amass a case against him.”

“And?”

“Because he was considered a celestial for so long, the Jade court was called in, and he’s to stand trial for cheating the living, the dead, and the heavenly court.”

Wukong was speechless, but he couldn’t find it in him to say he was surprised.

But only the judge of the dead himself knew this: the souls of two unnamed children indeed reincarnated after a window of one hundred years and one hundred days, along with an unfortunate mass of others. By then, the demonic chi that took their lives finally lost its heavy-trap hold.

They went through countless cycles as peasants, lords and ladies, until those two children approached the judge again on the hundredth day of the four hundredth year since their second death. The child once called Xiao Hua and her once-sister, once called Xiao Wa, asked to never be apart hereafter. Of all the things they could forget and remember and forget again, it was the faces of one another that they could not purge.

And so, he’d honored their wish. They reentered samsara as the Western Dragon King’s third-born son, Ao Lie, prince of the Western Sea.

Chapter Text

“Big brother, what’s your plan?” Ao Lie asked lowly, as if afraid Li Jing would be able to hear them from his place atop Kunlun.

“Depends,” Wukong said, fingers closing around the staff, “anyone else with him?”

“Just his soldiers. And some of his old master’s disciples-”

“All small fry then.” The monkey crouched. “Distract the disciples.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Everything else.”

With that, Wukong flung himself down and shifted into the demon’s armored shape, somersault cloud dissipating as Ao Lie floundered for balance, twisted, into the dragon’s form, and slithered straight after. Roaring, the prince slid between the nearest peak and wrapped himself around Kunlun’s resident trainees, determined to keep them in solid place.

The as-you-would golden cudgel expanded, stretched, and swirled into the size of ten pillars as Wukong stabbed it headfirst into the ground, shaking the Pagoda King’s troops off their feet. He landed with a flourish, swept the cudgel back to size, and snarled as the GREAT SAGE EQUALING HEAVEN popped out behind him on bloodied flags.

Ao Lie: “Big brother, watch out!”

Wukong hopped out of an arrow’s fiery path, an onslaught of blades following suit. He swung the cudgel, batting them back the way they came, and cried, “Li Jing, you’re a brave bastard!”

The Pagoda King’s gaze locked with his and as recognition dawned on Li Jing’s face, the celestial went rigid and red. “Damned ape, what right have you to be here!?”

Wukong laughed, several unfortunate soldiers taking the brunt of his next blow. They fell in a heap of blood and agonized screams, bobbing heads quite literally rolling off. The bodies quickly crawled over and grabbed their heads before scurrying to the safety of shadowed corners.

“Old Sun should ask you the same thing! What right have to keep Puti, eh?”

“You ought to be with that monk, or are you done with that now, demon!? And the Immortal Puti awaits trial. One that you will not interrupt!”

Li Jing held the pagoda to his chest and dove headfirst into the ground, disappearing straight through before popping out near-immediately and charging with a cut-keen spear.

“Help Lord Li!” the captain shouted.

Wukong slid out of Li Jing’s way, flipping the cudgel over his shoulders as another barrage of arrows came his way. Teeth bared, he waved his arm and curled their path with a burst of raw air. Li Jing slashed again, hacking and stabbing in a whirlwind of swift speed as the demon struggled to escape his onslaught of blows. Sensing the arrival of foot soldiers from behind, Wukong spun to beat them back, the distraction enough for an arrow to fly through his knee.

With an angry grunt, he fell, pinned to the ground, and pried the weapon from blood-stained fabric with gnashed teeth. He surged forward, forcing himself into that crowd of aiming troops as the arrowhead did its work, scraping the throats of all that passed his bristling head. Wukong spat the arrow out when Li Jing came to his men’s rescue, once more engaging the monkey in single you-hit-I-strike combat.

As the adrenaline pushed him on, he forced back the haze of pain that threatened to pull him down, wounds hissing for dear respite. The left leg gave out when he parried the tip of Li Jing’s spear, and as he propped himself onward with that still cudgel, Li Jing drove the spear into his side, twisting and pushing until he cried out. Wukong slammed the staff over the Pagoda King’s head, Li Jing tumbling off in a string of dust, spear painted red.

Chest heaving, the monkey leaned over his weapon and pressed a hand to the hole in his side, dark blood gushing between hairy fingers. He wheezed, spots rusting vision, and pain clipping breath. Li Jing blurred in front of him as he climbed to his feet, spear bent and pagoda in hand.

“So you bleed red?” the Pagoda King said, “just like any other ape.”

“Asshole, like you don’t?”

Wukong threw himself forward, cudgel smacking into the Li Jing’s shoulder, again and again until he heard bone crunch. The Pagoda King gasped in a half-shout, struggling to escape the demon’s wrath as he hurried to shield his pagoda from destruction, rushing in time to see an arrow strike Wukong in the shoulder blade. The monkey screamed aloud, falling atop Li Jing as that staff rolled aside.

With his unharmed hand, Li Jing grabbed the spear and pierced the demon’s shoulder, in the exact same spot he had been struck by the cudgel just seconds before. Wukong arched beneath him, teeth grit in muted pain. He clapped his hands over Li Jing’s spear and said, “Don’t you ha- have someone else to torture? Like your third son?”

“You leave my family out of this, foul-”

And- snap!- the spear split in half as Wukong cracked it in two and kicked Li Jing back. The monkey jumped to his feet, pulled the spearhead out and roared as he sped full-forward into Li Jing’s chest. Teeth sunk into the Pagoda King’s good arm as Li Jing furiously pounded at his head, flickering in and out of the air in a sonic bout until both slammed into the mountaintop, bodies skidding to a burning halt.

Reduced to human shape, Wukong picked himself up, half crawling as he stumbled towards the fallen pagoda, a trail of red at his heels. He scooped up the shrunken tower, held up the as-you-would cudgel, and put a palm over his side. He turned, only to see Ao Lie crash into the incoming troops. Bouncing back into princely form, the dragon ran towards him, yanked his sleeve, and yelled, “Big brother, let’s go!”

The monkey glared into the pagoda’s tiny windows. “Hear that, old man? Stop screaming. We’re going.”

Ao Lie: “Can Master hear us?”

Wukong shook the pagoda for good measure. “ Wonderfully .”

Helmet cracked in two, Li Jing forced himself up and pointed at the pair with a shout of, “Stop them!”

He was answered with a flash of white light, so bright it blinded, and a simple command that said, “Li Jing, the Heavenly Pagoda King, you shall pardon them.”

Wukong felt the corners of his mouth twitch up-- it was the voice of Madame Liu. Beside him, Ao Lie watched in confusion as Li Jing and his entire troop dropped to their knees and kowtowed in unison.

Li Jing: “Bodhisattva, forgive your humble servant! But-”

And behind the white mass, the Bodhisattva Guanyin replied with a curt, “Do as I say.”

“Thanks,” the monkey drawled, shutting his eyes against the light and letting loose his tail to pull Ao Lie into his grip. Under the cover of the Bodhisattva’s light, they once more fell atop the somersault cloud and sailed away from Mount Kunlun.

Guanyin: “This is the last hand I can lend you.”

“That was- what- how,” Ao Lie sputtered, “Guanyin of the Southern Sea? She- what- how.”

Wukong answered his questions by pinching two fingers together and flicking the dragon’s forehead with a sharp thwack. Ao Lie fell back against the somersault cloud.

“Big brother, did Guanyin really come to our rescue?” he asked, sitting back up.

“No, that was just a talking piece of air we bowed to.”

A polite “yes” would have sufficed, but Ao Lie supposed the word “polite” was not one the monkey was familiar with. He frowned and said, “Then why did she come?”

“Your father teach you nothing? We’d have heaven and hell to fight if she didn’t come.” Wukong held up Li Jing’s pagoda. “All for this geezer. Bodhisattva saved us a lot of time.”

“Then why come now ? Couldn’t we just ask her for help-”

“Got ourselves into this. Have to get ourselves out.” Then, rather sourly, he added, “And now we’re in her debt. She probably knew you’d eat her horse too- can’t play easy with Tathagata’s lot.”

Ao Lie wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news, so he opted to be thankful the Bodhisattva didn’t stop to inflict punishment on him for that horse. Wukong blew a breath of chi on the tower in his hands, shook the pagoda from top to bottom, and poised his fingers over.

Fascinated, Ao Lie watched as Wukong pulled Puti’s essence out of the heavenly pagoda, a string of shimmering aurora at the monkey’s shaking fingertips. When the the outline of his Master came into being, Wukong carelessly tossed the pagoda over his shoulder, letting it plummet through layer over layer of thick, full clouds. Translucent, Puti’s flesh faded into view, solidifying in silver flashes until the immortal appeared before them in weighted skin and bone.

In a fetal position, the Master touched his own head, fingers trailing through loose white hair as he tried to make sense of what had happened. His beard and robes alike were white, singed grey, and not a wrinkle appeared on his calloused hands. Then those sharp eyes opened, one by one. Ao Lie was the first he saw.

Puti: “Disciple…”

“Master!” the prince cried, throwing himself at Puti’s waist, the two falling back in a blubbering embrace as Wukong looked on with rolling eyes.

“I thought I’d never get out,” Puti sobbed, “good disciple, did you save me?”

“I’m so glad you’re safe, Master!” Ao Lie said, wriggling to avoid the splatter of Puti’s tears. “I went through so much trouble!”

“You’re such an amazing student, my dear pupil!”

“I know I am, Master!”

Wukong coughed.

Ao Lie: “You should thank big brother too.”

Puti stumbled over towards the monkey, hand still on Ao Lie’s wrist, and said, “I vomited twice because of your bad grip… but...” He reached for Wukong’s shoulder, the latter instantly shrinking back. “Wukong, it’s been so long.”

“Not long enough,” the monkey replied.

Puti laughed dryly. “Were you hoping I’d burn inside?”

“If Li Jing wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“Yes, that’s true. Suppose I’ve lived long enough- that what you come here for, Wukong, to do it yourself?”

Wukong glowered, leaning back against the cloud in a lazy slouch. “If I could, I would .”

“What’s stopping you?” Puti said, Ao Lie positioning himself between once-Master and once-disciple to prevent more bloodshed, knowing full well it would render their trip useless if Wukong ended up killing Puti.

Wukong: “I need a favor.”

Puti blinked back surprise, sat down, and asked bluntly, “what?”

“The Immortal Zhenyuan’s Ginsengfruit tree. It’s dead. Bring it back.”

Puti scratched the back of his head, looking at Wukong with an all too familiar gaze as he tried to make sense of the monkey’s statement.  “I’ve met Zhenyuan a few times, I believe. Wukong, start from the top. What the hell happened? ”

“Five hundred years ago I caused havoc in heaven-”

“I know that. Skip.”

“Then Tathagata came and-”

“Skip.”

“I was under Five Finger Mountain for-”

“Just tell me about the tree!” Puti looked him up and down. “And why you’re such a bloody mess.”

“What’s there to say, you old fuck!?”

“You-!”

Ao Lie piped up instantly: “Master, I’ll tell you what happened. Master Sanzang took us to Wuzhuang Temple and…”

Xuanzang listened quietly to the ruckus outside, Mingyue and Qingfeng shouting for mercy in turn as Zhenyuanzi delivered swift retribution on his devoted servants: “Don’t think I forgot who let those rogues near my tree!”

Qinfeng: “Master please!”

Mingyue: “No, it wasn’t my fault- no!”

The boys screamed, cries echoing throughout the temple and pleads falling in vain. Xuanzang had no desire to see what punishment they endured, though judging from the sound of wood against flesh, he assumed the pair underwent a spanking of divine proportions.

Not soon after, the door to his room opened and Mingyue stumbled in on crab legs, eyes red from crying, a tray of steamed rice and green tea in his hands.

“Are you alright?” the monk asked flatly.

“Shut up. This is all your fault!” the servant snapped, gritting his teeth as he bent to place the tray on Xuanzang’s bed, the Tang priest refusing to move a muscle. “I don’t see why we’ve got to serve you anyway. You’re good as dead. That ape hightailed out of here and he’s not coming back.”

Xuanzang watched Mingyue pour tea with reluctant grace.

“He’ll return,” he said.

Mingyue snorted, pushing back snot. “Yeah, yeah, so what. You’ll just beat him up again.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Don’t you know there are only two ways to revive Master’s tree? You either stick around for nine thousand years or you kill a thousand unborn children for one seed. Ape only has ‘til midnight.”

Xuanzang said nothing, Mingyue groaning as he straightened and took his leave. Before shutting the door behind him, the servant rubbed his sore bottom and added, “You’re not stupid enough to think Sun Wukong’s above doing that, are you?"

Wukong wasn’t sure how far Guanyin’s pardon extended or how long heaven would take to deliberate Puti’s innocence. He was, however, sure that some form of punishment awaited them, so his first choice of action after Puti’s retrieval was to hide their group in Flower Fruit Mountain. He assumed the sheer amount of demons it amassed would cause the Jade court to take pause a while longer, lest they repeat the same mistake they made five hundred years prior.

And there was no more point in lying to himself- he lacked the strength to fight any more soldiers that came his way. Keeping the pain at bay was proving far too hard a task. He felt as if Lord Buddha himself had picked him up, and dipped his flesh in the acid of King Yan’s deathly lakes, all while gutting him like a fish.

But he forgot all these complaints the moment they arrived at the kingdom of flowers and fruits. It was snowing. He jumped off the cloud first, Puti and Ao Lie following suit as he limped forward, staff digging its way through piles of white blanketing the once-green earth. It was spring year-round in Flower Fruit Mountain.

Its seasons four, were once one, fertile in bulging fruits and the velvet of green spring. That was the Flower Fruit Mountain he remembered, the first home he had ever looked upon.

He turned over a bloodied hand and watched the snow drift over palm. It was dust. He looked up, all around. Flower Fruit Mountain was covered in ash, its trees gnarled and dead, springs shriveled dry, and rocks turned grey, as if all had been painted over with a brush of soot.

“What happened?” he heard himself say, wondering if he had by chance, imagined it all.

“Big brother,” Ao Lie said softly, “you didn’t know?”

Wukong stayed silent, standing still as Ao Lie and Puti walked to his side, not a sound to be heard save the distant sobs of a hungry vulture.

“When you were under Five Finger Mountain, Erlang Shen set fire to Mount Huaguo.”

And it had been smoke since.

Wukong: “I didn’t know.”

Chapter Text

The monkey hiked onwards, silent as the sea of barren earth and ash beneath his sluggish feet, the stick-once-cudgel sculpting through the forsaken remains of Flower Fruit Mountain and what once was. Steps behind, Ao Lie and Puti paced to his left and right, master and disciple trekking along with linked arms and sleeves. And Mount Huaguo sloped upwards in a never-ending pile of withered trees and dusty flakes.

Big brother, Ao Lie wanted to say, but he lacked the words to follow. Wukong had all but blocked he and Master out, as if intent on facing the remnants of Huaguo alone. And had the Western Sea met such a fate, Ao Lie supposed he would have done the same, for this was a kingdom, and this was a kingdom gone.

“Master,” the dragon said, only to be shushed by Puti’s knowing look.

Keep it to yourself, the Master seemed to say, let’s all keep it to ourselves. So Ao Lie swallowed his thoughts and walked on, pausing every now and then to wait on Puti as he coughed the pagoda’s soot from his charred lungs. Wukong stopped for neither, hellbent on traipsing the trail to his former domain, as if he could reclaim everything once lost and once had with nothing but his restless feet alone.

Their path dipped down into a mass of grey forest and sharp peaks, much like the teeth of a burnt dragon’s jaw. Wukong shook the ash from his hair, turned to his companions, and said, “Stay close.”

Puti spat out a mouthful of dust and nodded, tugging Ao Lie’s arm as he moved to join the monkey, who had since resumed his walk. They entered that skeleton of a jungle and passed its lifeless grounds, until they found themselves atop a cliff overlooking fog, a shadowed pit of a valley below. Wukong stopped abruptly, Ao Lie and Puti nearly smashing into his backside before the mouth of a high cave, dim with sinister pall.

Ao Lie felt Puti tense, guard piqued by the aurora from within- dark, murky, and bottled, what belonged to not one demon, but a whole slew. Against his will, the prince stepped back when he saw those eyes pop from the dark, dozens of pairs of shining red accompanied with chit-chatter sounds of grunts and growls. Before Ao Lie readied himself for another fight, a voice spoke from that direction, raw and guttural.

“ KiNg ,” it said, “ tHe kiNg’s bAck .”

“The king’s back,” the others chorused, voices like grating nails.

“Your highness!” they said, screeched, echo over echo. “Your highness! Your high- highness- highness- highness!”

Ao Lie heard what sounded like fists against wall, a rapid thwack-thwacking of limbs and heads as the creatures cried for their king, howls soon turned into a cacophony of screams and shrieks. In front, Wukong slouched farther, head twisting into that of a long-faced ape as he returned their shrill cries with one of his own. And still howling, the demons came out, crawling into the misted light on all four, one muddy primate after the other, each uglier than the last.

Desperate and overcome, they covered their chieftain, prostrating themselves at his feet, wrapping hands about his shoulders, sniffing and kissing every bit of him they could, afraid he would again disappear should they fail to prove their fealty. And still, more crawled out to join, for the King of Huaguo returned at long last and these were the subjects that remained, a sorry number compared to what once was. As the dragon watched, it dawned on him that they had waited five centuries for this moment, endured without respite, and perhaps never once wondered if it was for naught. Whether it was stupidity or loyalty, he could not tell.

But he supposed he could expect no more from this pack of apes.

Leaning against the staff, Wukong shook his head back into human shape and waved a hand at Ao Lie and Puti. “These are my guests. Take them in.”

“Guests! Guests!” the monkeys cried, tripping over themselves to enclose the pair and usher them in. As the simians tugged and grappled at his sleeves, Ao Lie said, “Big brother, what’s inside?”

“Water Curtain Cave,” Wukong replied, not a hint of emotion in that flat tone.

Ao Lie took another look, only just realizing that the bed of dry rock they stood upon had been the haven of myths. This was the cave behind Flower Fruit’s waterfall, what the Handsome Monkey King had once mistaken for paradise, now no more.

The primates having shoved Ao Lie and Puti farther down, Wukong tried to recall what the cave once looked like, smooth and cool with green shadow all around. He stared at cobwebs now, dust and ash sprinkled over dry rock at every turn, for the great waterfall that had stood outside was reduced to a trail of thin dust, dried beyond dry. Huaguo’s clan gathered around him, so excited they reverted to the primitive oohs and aahs of their youth, all having forgotten to speak. He kept his face stoic, unwilling to look any of them in the eye.

Each face, he remembered, and each looked ravaged by time and grief, scarred by Erlang Shen’s fire, and forgotten by the mighty mountain itself. He had sat atop their very shoulders once, laughed as they served him fruit, cackled as they cheered his every move. And in the end, he deserved none of it.

It was as if he could hear Tathagata’s voice, calm and righter than thou as it told him this was the result of his greed and bloodlust, his own doing from start to finish. And he could not stop it, could not fix it, for all was said and done.

“Your highness,” one of them said, scrabbling over with shining eyes and eager knuckles, the others parting to make room for him, “we knew you’d come back, we knew! We knew!”

It took Wukong a good moment to recognize the ape, a navy-faced gibbon with hair the color of charcoal and chalk. A tattered cape hung from his low shoulders, plates of rusted armor over his fur.

“Beng,” Wukong said, “General Beng…”

Beng nodded, face scrunched with held-back tears as he buried his head against Wukong’s waist, almost pressing over the wound Li Jing had left. Wincing, he held Beng for a time, at a loss for words, quite sure no apology would suffice.

Beng: “You’re hurt.”

Wukong: “I don’t see you for five hundred years and you turn daft? Your grandpa’s fine.”

Still in his arms, Beng shook that dirty head. “Your highness, it must’ve been so hard for you. I’m sorry- General Beng’s been useless, I’m so sorry!”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Wukong shoved Beng out of his grip, the gibbon tumbling on the rock-hard ground. “Grandpa Sun’s never been better! You’re crying over shit.”

He took one more look at what had become of Water Curtain Cave. “You’re not the wrong one… now tell me, what happened here after the fire?”

Beng sniffed, wiped his snot against a palm, and said, “What you see here, your highness, is everyone that’s left. The fire wiped us out by the hundreds- me, Lyu, Ma, and Ba found a bridge under the cave. Hid all we could there, but...”

“But?”

“...”

“Beng, don’t lie to your king.”

“The other demons here blamed us. It was terrible, my liege. We couldn’t leave here, couldn’t move move at all without them attacking. There was so much in-fighting and… and we all got so weak. There’s almost no food left on Huaguo. We can’t even fend off human hunters this way- it’s a living hell, your highness, a living hell!”

“So that’s why there are so few of us left.”

“Yes, but now you’re back, my king, now you’ll save us like you did before, and we’ll all be fine again!” *

Beng reached for him again, but Wukong shook him off. He didn’t want to see the general like this. In his memory, Beng was an arrogant brute, always eager to flaunt his fighting prowess and even more eager to rebuke his king’s every word. Beng had changed, changed so much that Wukong wondered if he had never been Beng.

Instead, he asked, “What of General Ba? Marshal Lyu? Ma?”

Beng: “Ba died in the fire. Lyu was eaten by a lion demon down in the forest.”

Then he added quickly, “I killed the demon.”

Ba’s death might have explained the change. Wukong knew the two gibbons to be close. News of his and Lyu’s deaths dropped an empty feeling within, like a hollow bowl taking its first fall down a well. Lyu was a quiet ape, but loyal nonetheless, a model warrior. They had all been model soldiers, and so their power-hungry king dubbed the four his Royal Guards. And yet beyond that, he had known them well before Water Curtain Cave, well before he even knew the name Sun.

Wukong: “What about Ma?”

A tad disappointed Wukong hadn’t praised his slaying of the lion, Beng said, “Marshal Ma… he’s been ill for a long time.”

The general tilted his head towards Ao Lie and Puti in the distance. “If he could, he would have been the first to greet you, your highness. Ma, he… he’ll tell you himself.”

“You go on first,” Wukong ordered, “tell Ma I’m back. I have to get this lot taken care of.”

“As you wish.”

Wukong waited for Beng to scurry down the stone corridor before joining Huaguo’s guests, the duo clearly looking out of their element. Ao Lie and Puti were equally pale, more than unsettled by the darkness of the cave and even moreso by the beasts that comprised of Wukong’s subjects.

“This is Puti,” the monkey said, pointing at the immortal, “my- he was my Master.”

And again, they were assaulted by a chorus of excited echoes: “Grandmaster! Grandmaster! Welcome, grandmaster!”*

Puti: “Uh… Hello!”

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

Wukong: “Serve him well. And this brat too, his new disciple.”

They turned their shouts to Ao Lie. “Elder brother! Elder brother! Elder brother!”

“I’m the third prince of the Western Sea,” Ao Lie felt the need to add, only to be rebuffed with Wukong’s, “So?”

Ao Lie: “So… well, that was it.”

Wukong made a noise of disdain, clicked his cudgel against the ground, and said, “If you’re hungry, ask them for food- maybe they’ll share.”

Ao Lie thought those words had been for him and Master, but they were for him alone, because Wukong then circled in front of Puti and said, “Now we’re settled down. Old man, tell me here- how do we fix Zhenyuan’s tree?”

Puti sat on a protruding rock and stroked that white beard in thought, fingers catching in its tangled strands. “It’s not that simple, Wukong. It took him nine thousand years to cultivate and it’s such a rare plant we can’t revive it by mortal means.”

“Well, you’re not mortal, are you!?”

“Stop yelling! I need to think!”

“Think faster!”

“I can’t think with you screaming in my head- you have no idea how long I spent in that damned pagoda! My ears are still burning!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the monkey said, raising the cudgel as if he meant to strike, “maybe this will help you recover!”

Ao Lie threw himself between the two, almost bumping his nose against the staff. “Big brother, Master, wait- I’m sure we’re all just under stress!”

And trying to diffuse the tension further, he pointed at a random chimp and said, “Uh, you, bring us some fruit!”

“Right away, elder brother!”

“Then stop standing around and serve me!”

“Of course!”

It felt good to order underlings around again- that was a feeling Ao Lie had sorely missed. When he looked back to the arguing pair, Puti had his back turned, head facing a gruff wall, and Wukong was slumped against the opposite slab, arms crossed in frustration. Around them, the monkeys ran off to find food, eager to escape the incoming quarrel.

After a silence of what felt like eons, Puti spoke: “If we kill one thousand unborn children and carve out their mothers’ wombs, we can fertilize the earth with their blood; then a new seed can take root.”

Ao Lie: “Then… does it have to be human children?”

“Ginseng fruit, yes. The seed usually starts from the union of a plant and mortal, but it’s not something anyone can do, immortal or otherwise.”

Wukong: “One thousand? Are you fucking with me?!”

Ao Lie: “Big brother, are we going to do this?”

“What do you think? Old man, go on!”

Puti: “Calm down! That’s just the textbook way. They don’t call me Puti the Immortal for nothing… There’s a different method I’ve thought up before. Never tried it. Now, we can go to an immortal mountain, one that’s old enough, been through enough life and death. We plant the Ginseng seeds within, season them with celestial’s blood, let them suck up the nutrients, and use magic to accelerate its growth.”

Wukong: “That simple?”

“Of course not. First, we’d need two Ginseng seeds. Next, we’d have to trick the seeds into thinking they’re in a human womb- one of us will have to swallow them and let it grow from there; it won’t be a pretty sight, you know?”

At that, Ao Lie pulled a pair of seeds from the pockets of his robes, remnants of the fruit the Tang priest had gifted him back in Wuzhuang. “Master, I have the seeds.”

Wukong snatched them out of his hand instantly. “Great, let’s go.”

Puti turned around and rather suddenly, said, “Wait! Wukong, think this through- the ginsengfruit’s very powerful. We can use Huaguo to revive the tree… or we can use the tree to revive Huaguo.”

Stunned by the outburst, Wukong looked as if he had been splashed with ice water. He paled, the gravity of Puti’s words dawning over his weary head.

“Wukong, think on it,” Puti said again, gentle for the first time since their reunion.

Wukong: “I heard you the first time, shut it, old man.”

Puti made to reply but Beng returned on flailing feet, a torch in his wrinkled hands. Anxious, he waved the flame before Wukong’s face and said, “Your highness, come, come! I can take you to Marshal Ma!”

And a little too eager to leave, Wukong nodded, gathered his staff, and followed Beng away. Ao Lie cast Puti one more look, the Master staring dejectedly back, before taking off after the monkey. What happened between the two, the dragon didn’t know, but what was happening between them now, he did know, and it reminded him far too much of his family’s never-ending, ever-rifted quarrels.

He followed the gibbon and his king to the end of the cave, surprisingly spacious and splattered with peeling paint. The three of them stood under a mural of drawings, no doubt finger-painted by the monkeys themselves, a document of Sun Wukong’s every triumph and move. From Beng’s torch, a shade of light cast itself over that covered cavern wall, an image of Huaguo’s king at the center, drawn with harsh lines and color, a twin phoenix crown upon his head and a scarlet cape flowing past his scratched legion of troops. But Ao Lie didn’t have the time to inspect the artwork further.

“Big brother!” he said.

And outlined by the torch’s flame, Wukong turned, shoulders sagged, weary and wounded, looking nothing like the portrait that stood behind. And there, Ao Lie knew he’d fallen, crumpled like Flower Fruit Mountain, and left not a trace of glory behind. It stirred an ache within the prince, an uncomfortable something he couldn’t quite place.

Wukong: “Well? I don’t have all day.”

Ao Lie: “Big brother, give Master a chance, please.”

“I didn’t let him rot- that’s chance enough. Now go wait with the old man.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, and you know it, big brother.”

The phrase came out harsher than Ao Lie intended, almost challenging and the violent flicker behind Wukong’s eyes told the prince he’d made a mistake. But he didn’t have the ability to take back what was said. Instead, he puffed out his chest and said, “Master doesn’t hate you.”

“I don’t care who he hates- why are you still here?”

“But you do,” the dragon said, “I know he’s been harsh with you… but- but Master talks about you all the time. Sun Wukong this, and Sun Wukong that.”

Wukong scowled and prepared to turn away, but Ao Lie latched onto his hand. He was immediately pushed back. As he stumbled for steadiness, he went on, “I don’t know if you know, but I think you should know… you weren’t just Master Puti’s disciple- you were his favorite disciple! There hasn’t been a day since you left him that he hasn’t thought of you- I know this, all his students know this, so please-”

And not knowing what else to say, Ao Lie implored again, “Please don’t hate him.”

Wukong stared at him, saying nothing, and when he did speak, it was a barely audible whisper, “you don’t know anything,” followed by his louder, “Wait here.”

“Big brother-”

But Wukong would say no more. The monkey clapped a hand over Beng’s back and the two disappeared down a tunnel beneath a clay-colored bridge. Ao Lie was left with the mural of paintings, feeling much like an outsider under the history of Huaguo above.

Below, Wukong let Beng lead him through the space their clan now lived, as grimy and damp as he expected. Ao Lie’s words spun in the back of his mind, but he neither had the time nor patience to think them through. Puti belonged in the far past, as did the rest of Huaguo, and once this was over, he’d part from all of them, including that brat of a prince, for good.

“Ma,” Beng said, voice near coaxing, “Ma, the king’s back, he’s back to see you.”

Marshal Ma lay on a makeshift cot, shaggy copper fur covered with a blanket of straw. Beng stood to the side, torch in hand, as Wukong approached the cot, Ma’s familiar face coming into view: flat-nosed, wide, pucker-mouthed. Ma sat up then, glassy eyes surrounded by discolored wrinkles- scars from fire.

“Your highness, where are you?” Ma rasped.

Wukong sat on the cot’s edge, propped the staff by his leg, and put a hand over Ma’s own. “Right here.”

The ape grinned. “Wukong? Wukong, this is real?”

“As real as your ugly ass.”

Ma lifted a long arm to feel the king’s face. He laughed, or perhaps sobbed, it was hard to tell. “You got what you wanted, Wukong- you look like them now.”

Wukong let those fingers roam over his man-shaped face for a few more moments before he asked, “What happened to your eyes?”

“Erlang Shen’s fire… but I’m used to it now, been five hundred years.”

Wukong stopped Ma’s hands from moving farther. He held the fingers in his own, tightened, and choked out, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ma said, twisting his head to smile at Wukong, a homely curve of lips, “I didn’t wanna see in a world without you anyway. So I’m glad, glad I couldn’t see when we were apart… now I can just see you as you were.”

“Don’t be cheesy,” Wukong said.

“Just let me have this, Wukong.” Ma sighed. “You’re in golden armor. You’ve got the phoenix cap. And I’d look at you and I’d say, ‘the Great Sage Equaling Heaven! That’s my glorious king!’”

“Alright. You’re right… that’s what I look like.”

“Good.” Then Ma said, “do you remember Mount Huaguo before Water Curtain?”

“What’s there to remember?”

“Once we tried to go sledding on the cliffs with logs. Then...”

“Then what?”

“You said it was a stupid idea and pushed me off the cliff.”

Wukong laughed, chest expanding as he felt a wave of genuine joy. “I remember.”

“And when you thought peaches and rocks were the same.”

“You’re never letting me live that down?”

“No,” Ma laughed, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, “you ate so many rocks and when I tried, I broke my teeth. And you laughed.”

“Grew back, didn’t they?”

“I knew you’d say that.” And when Wukong snorted, Ma added, “Wukong, you have such terrible laughter… it makes me so happy to hear it again.”

“Ma-”

“I just wanted to be with you again. I couldn’t do shit about Five Finger Mountain. Wukong, I know you can’t stay, but I waited so long for this one moment. To meet you before I die, that’s all I wanted.”

Wukong rubbed a palm over Ma’s head. “You’re an idiot. A real idiot. That’s a stupid wish, that’s such a stupid wish.”

“I can’t help it,” Ma said, “Great Sage, your highness, Wukong, you’ll always be Siho to me, maybe that’s why.”

Ma laughed again, and now Wukong could see he was crying. He’d never seen Ma cry, not over any wound or insult, not even from joy. But now he was. He’d named Ma himself, named all of them with his lack of eloquence, and he realized he was about to let down the Marshal all over again.

“Ma,” he said, and again, “Ma…”

Puti’s words chose that moment to push to the front- Huaguo or Wuzhuang. He had one chance and one way, to restore Flower Fruit Mountain or the Ginsengfruit Tree. He felt his breath constrict as he held onto Ma’s shaking hands, feeling as if he had to choose now. Zhenyuan or Huaguo, Xuanzang or Ma. And-

Wukong shook his head, blood humming behind his ears. He set Ma’s hands down, kissed his eyes, and said, “Ma, I have to go. I can’t stay longer.”

Ma: “I know. Do what you have to. Just don’t forget us, you hear?”

Wukong: “I won’t.” I can’t .

He wiped the tears from Ma’s face, stood a moment longer, and gestured at Beng to leave. In silence, they left the marshal’s cot and climbed back through the tunnel. He’d crawled through a fallen log before, unsure where it would lead, and when he emerged, a mean-faced ape had been at the end of it, feasting on some poor human’s carcass. The ape had asked him what he was, then it’d said, “Oh, so you’re the stone monkey- Siho!” And they’d eaten that man together. Then years later, he’d named the ape Ma, Marshal Ma.

But Ma was behind them now. When Wukong emerged from the tunnel, there was no light save Beng’s torch, and instead of Ma, knelt Ao Lie. The prince hadn’t moved a muscle since the monkey’s descent. Wukong walked past him without a word, Beng at his heels.

Ao Lie scrambled after them, decision made. Master was back so he had no more to worry about on Father’s front, or rather, that was what he told himself. He’d looked at the mural, studied its paintings, and however crude, its lines were etched with devotion, loyalty of the purest sort, with far more emotion than every scroll in his father’s palace and his uncles’ combined. And he’d wondered why.

But now he knew.

The truth was that Ao Lie had once hated Sun Wukong- he’d been jealous of Puti’s praise, of living in the Great Sage’s shadow, just as he had of living in his blood brothers’ shadows. But the envy went further, he admitted, for the Monkey King had gained everything from nothing. He had not a drop of kin in the world or a coin to his name and all that he had, he carved from will alone. And yet Prince Ao Lie, born with everything, had amounted to nothing. Third best to his father and second best to his Master, he’d lost and lost- so he admired Big Brother, stood in awe of him and hated him nonetheless, for the Great Sage was remembered and the third prince would be forgotten, if not already.

And now he knew why. It didn’t matter to those demons that their king had lost his crown, that he came to them in blood and rags, that he was a legend gone. He’d seen Big Brother fight, had seen him triumph in spite of it all. He was King , in every sense of the word, the embodiment of that great mural, and painfully deserving of what Ao Lie was about to do.

Ao Lie: “I have the ginsengfruit.”

Wukong stopped mid-step, raised a brow, and said, “Fiery eyes say you ate it.”

“I’m a dragon,” the prince said, “we can eat to safe-keep.”

And as Wukong watched, wide-eyed, Ao Lie dipped his head, heaved, and hacked out the last Gingsengfruit, wrapped in blue dragon’s mucus. He held the fruit up and after one and two more coughs, grinned and winced.

Ao Lie: “We can leave this at Huaguo.”

The monkey’s eyes were so wide they looked ready to drop out. He stood, rooted, as if unable to believe what the prince had just accomplished. Then, voice quivering, he said, “Bailong…”

“Big brother?”

“ Why didn’t you say so?! ” Wukong said, words caught in a long breath.

Then the monkey fell to his knees, chest heaving, shoulders racked with open sobs. He planted his head against the ground, choking and gasping as he wept. He shook all over, back rising and falling with each pained breath.

“Big brother!”

Stunned, Ao Lie dropped beside the monkey, one hand raised to pat Wukong’s backside before he stopped himself mid-air. Unsure what to do, he put both hands on his knees and watched Wukong collect those cries. Nails scratching ground, Wukong dug his hands into stone, face streaked with tears over blood.

He wanted to vomit and choke on snot, sob out every mistake he’d ever made and drown within. Because he chose Xuanzang. If not for the dragon’s fruit, he would have let Huaguo die, abandoned Ma and Beng and all the rest for the Tang priest alone. In the end, he was selfish to the core, no better than those celestials atop their high thrones, and deserved far longer than five hundred years under Tathagata’s hand.

Wukong and Puti buried the ginsengfruit in the middle of the jagged forest overlooking Water Curtain Cave. The demons watched from a distance, anxious to see what their king would do next. Wukong looked to Puti, too tired to bear him ill will. The immortal finished the last of his bananas, brought forth by the eager chimps Ao Lie had ordered with such glee, and let the peel drop.

“What now?” Wukong asked.

“Your monkeys aren’t going anywhere. No rush. Let’s spread this with magic and be on our way.”

That being said, the immortal rolled up a sleeve, scratched a vein on his arm, and let the blood sprinkle over earth. He sat cross-legged and invited Wukong to do the same. They held their hands up at the tips and channeled whatever chi they could at the spot beneath. And as the energy took its course, a splotch of grass took root.

Wukong: “How long?”

Puti: “I can’t say. Maybe a year, maybe ten, but it works alright.”

Behind them, the monkeys cheered and hollered, crying for their king and grandmaster again and again. Wukong stood up first, wobbled, and turned to the crowd. He waved them off.

“Go back,” was his final order, “take care of yourselves, don’t make Grandpa Sun worry.”

Ao Lie waited for that clan to finish their tearful farewells, each one coming up to smother their king in turn, which must have been quite painful for big brother’s wounds. Beng, in particular, had taken particularly long and had he stayed any longer, the dragon would have expected him to mate with Wukong. And then, they were gone.

Wukong pulled out Ao Lie’s seeds. He asked Puti again, “So I eat them, then what, let it grow?”

“You stupid ape,” the Master snapped, “do you have any idea how draining it’d be? You have to keep it transformed inside the stomach or the tree bursts and rips every organ- then we extract it from the throat. As I said, it’s not simple.”

“I’m the Great Sage Equaling Heaven- we’re doing this!”

“No!” Puti swept the seeds from the monkey’s palm. “Look at you! You’re wounded from head to toe- you’d only drag the tree down with you. And have you even thought about why? Wukong, you’re mortal now!”

Ao Lie: “Wh-”

Wukong: “What?”

Puti: “I can’t tell how it happened, so I’ll tell you this- the you I knew, even before the cast of iron, would have recovered long ago. So face the facts, monkey. You’ll die if you try those seeds.”

“Old man-”

Puti: “And then who’s going to take the Tang priest west?”

Wukong had no reply for that and as Ao Lie prepared to speak and break the tension, Puti said, “I’ll do it. You and Ao Lie lend your magic.”

“ You? ” Wukong said, aghast.

“Yes, me, don’t sound so surprised. I’m a great immortal after all! Ao Lie, take your big brother and stand back.”

Ao Lie followed the Master’s orders, tugging Wukong’s sleeve in an effort to pull the both of them back, the monkey repeating Puti’s word on his confused lips- mortal? Mortal? Puti placed the seeds in his mouth, gulped, and sat in a flutter of pooled robes. He held both hands flat against his chest, sucked in a breath, and shut his eyes in concentration. Wukong and Ao Lie followed suit, flipping hands as they made a swirl of chi, blue and white in turn. It engulfed Puti and, slowly, Ao Lie saw the ginsengfruit’s translucent roots embed themselves over the Master’s veins and Huaguo’s earth.

Celestials, mortals, demons, and plants- there was none Puti the Immortal could not cheat.

He and Wukong watched, dumbstruck, when Puti’s hair turned into a leafy green, skin tanning until it became the color of trunk, body growing tall and thick, and beard spinning into a violet moss. Puti’s face stayed unmoving as the rest of him grew and grew, a perfect vessel for the Ginsengfruit tree, hairs shifting purple as more leaves spread and babe fruits blossomed. White became brown as robes became bark and veins became roots as limbs became branch.

“Master!” Ao Lie cried.

Puti: “Shh!”

The dragon placed a hand over his own mouth. Puti continued to twist into the Ginsengfruit tree before them. It would take most, if not all, of his chi to balance the transformation and escape the tree. This, Wukong knew, and as loathe as he was to admit it, he could think of only one reason why Puti would risk his life to do so. It was not just gratitude for his rescue from King Li- it was his way of making amends, amends that had come far too late.

Because Wukong could not go back to Puti now, even if all the resentment melted from his stone heart, as it did at that moment. They could never go back to before, and this, Puti knew.

When the tree reached its full length and spread, Puti peeled himself out of the tree, leaving behind the bark and leaves until he was again a man in shape. Pale and unsteady, he stumbled into Ao Lie’s steadfast grip. The dragon helped him to a nearby stump, and there, Puti sat to catch his breath.

“Old man, you really did it,” Wukong muttered as he came to join them.

Puti smiled, weary. “I’ve gotten quite powerful over the years. There it is, Wukong- you figure out how to bring it to ol’ Zhenyuan.”

Wukong met his gaze, held it, and said, more choked up than intended, “ Thank you. ”

At that, Puti only nodded. Nothing more needed to be said and no kowtows needed to be had. Wukong turned, limped towards the tree, and checked it over for thirty-two fruits exact. His, and Ao Lie’s, and Puti’s chi had all gone into those ripened fruits, and he was glad to know the exhaustion had paid off. He yanked off a strand of hair, whispered, “change,” and blew it over the tree.

The Ginsengfruit tree instantly puffed out of existence and melded into a strand of hair in the monkey’s grip. He tucked it away, swung the cudgel over his shoulders, and prepared to summon the somersault cloud. Then he pushed the heavy fatigue away and glanced at Ao Lie.

“Bailong,” he said, “you did well. I’ll tell Baldy.”

Ao Lie supposed that was the monkey’s way of saying ‘thank you.’ Then he realized he had just been praised, not mocked, and unable to think for a good few seconds, he asked, “Big brother, why, why make us go this far for the Tang monk?”

Wukong thought. Then he said, “Every human and celestial I’ve met’s... been a liar and a cheat. Not him.”

Not him. Chen Xuanzang had been pure and good when he’d first met him under that mountain, so painfully good. And then, he’d thought, what right does this man have to be so good, so naive, so unbroken? Then, Xuanzang had been nobody, another human with no right to make him servant to whim. And he’d been so sure Xuanzang would be like all the rest.

He supposed that was why he found it so easy to kill the woman named Duan. He knew Xuanzang loved her in that mortal way, and she him, and they’d been so mortal, so human, so stupid, he felt nothing when he did what he did. Then he’d thought the monk would turn out like everyone else. But against all odds, Chen had stayed good, so good he’d even been willing to give him , of all people, a chance.  

“Prince, listen here.”

Sun Wukong was rotten and spiteful and everything bad, but Chen Xuanzang was the opposite, loving and kindly and everything good; he was all that he was not, even if the priest himself did not know.

“Chen Xuanzang’s the best man you’ll ever meet, in this lifetime and the last and the next.”

He meant every word. But Ao Lie had never met many humans in the first place. And as the dragon mulled over that answer, Wukong hopped aboard the somersault cloud, trusting himself not to topple over on the way back. By Puti’s side, Ao Lie watched the cloud tumble out of view.

“Eldest brother!”

Bajie stretched his neck to see Wukong’s head come into view, the monkey all but hauling himself up Wuzhuang’s stairs. Bajie blinked to make sure he wasn’t imagining the first disciple’s return. He’d hung from the slab since day and it was well past night, the sky blinking twilight as his sore limbs threatened to disintegrate on the spot.

“Boss!” he cried again, “I knew you’d save us! Never once did I doubt you!”

And the spell on his tongue had long since worn off, the slices on his back dimmed to deep bruises. Hanging beside him, Wujing said, “Boss, where’s the tree?”

Bajie: “Oh, I see now! You’re so smart, boss. You came back to free us and leave Baldy behind! What a clever trick!”

Wukong stalked past them, cudgel pushing in front, and mumbled, “Asshole, shut up.”

“Where’s the tree?” Wujing asked again.

Wukong’s only answer was a lazy wave of the hand. As the other disciples called after him, he continued his march through the courtyard, quite sure Zhenyuanzi was waiting at the end. Mingyue and Qingfeng crossed his path first, more than a little smug.

“Shall I inform Master of your failure?” Qingfeng asked.

“Ha! Knew you couldn’t do it!” Mingyue mocked.

Wukong spat in their faces, much to Mingyue’s disgust. And snickering to himself, he walked on until he found the Immortal Zhenyuan meditating by the open parlor.

Wukong: “Zhenyuan, I got what you wanted.”

Suspicious, the patriarch stood and scanned him. “I’d like to see proof, ape.”

Without another word, Wukong made his way past the parlor and to the garden where the tree’s pieces remained split all over. With a whispered, “change,” the monkey blew a hair out and watched a new Ginsengfruit tree take root, standing where its predecessor had once grown, fruits swaying in place and leaves aplenty, as if the previous had never fallen.

In awe, Zhenyuanzi approached the tree, ran his hands over the bark, and looked it twice over for flaws and faults. Finding none, the patriarch, said, tears welling, “I’ll be damned. Not even a drop of human blood within… if you didn’t use it, then how?”

“You’re not the only immortal around.”

Wukong expected Zhenyuanzi to break down crying, but to his surprise, a toothy grin split the patriarch’s grim mouth, disconcerting against his otherwise refined face. Zhenyuanzi wrapped an arm about Wukong’s shoulder, and as the monkey stared wide-eyed at what had just happened, the patriarch cried, loudly , “Qingfeng, Mingyue! Serve us drinks, this is cause for celebration!”

Not long after, the servants tripped over themselves to reach their master, confusion evident on their faces, which soon turned blank with shock upon seeing the revived tree.

“How is this possible?” Qingfeng said.

Mingyue: “What the fuck!?”

“Didn’t you hear your Master, assholes?” Wukong said, “get those drinks.”

Mingyue: “What the fuck!?”

Zhenyuanzi: “Qingfeng! Tell Master Sanzang he can go free and cut his disciples loose. Mingyue, grab my wine so I may celebrate with my newest brother!”

At a loss as to what to say, Qingfeng nodded and went on with his orders. Stupefied, Mingyue ran off, confused “fucks” muttered under his breath. Then it dawned on Wukong that Zhenyuan meant to swear brotherhood with him, and unsure if this was reality or a side-effect of those ill-worn injuries, he asked, “ What? ”

“I hadn’t believed in miracles until now,” Zhenyuanzi said honestly, “Great Sage, it seems you do have something to back up that ego. You brought back two extra fruits. For this, I forgive you! On the condition you swear with me, little brother.”

When he finished, Mingyue had returned, cups and wine jug in hand. Zhenyuanzi waved the cups into his grip, threw one at Wukong, and held his up for Mingyue to pour. Wukong allowed himself a smirk when the boy poured his wine, the servant seething at the ears.

Zhenyuanzi: “Now drink!”

Wukong clinked his cup with Zhenyuan’s own and downed the wine in one gulp. The liquid burned his throat, but was numbing respite nonetheless. And eager, he held out his cup again for another drink. After five or so drinks with the patriarch, he heard Zhenyuanzi laugh and say, “To my little brother!”

This was followed by an enthusiastic clap to the back. And against his will, the monkey cried out, overcome with pain. Zhenyuanzi kept him from falling with steady arms.

“My apologies, little brother,” he said, “I’d almost forgotten-”

“It’s nothing,” Wukong replied between gasps, “let’s drink.”

“Mingyue, you heard him! Pour us more- let us finish this jar.”

The Immortal Zhenyuan had offered to let him stay at Wuzhuang Temple, but Xuanzang opted to leave for fear his disciples sink themselves in more trouble. According to a frantic Qingfeng, Zhenyuanzi would be celebrating the Ginsengfruit tree’s return with Wukong while he freed the Tang priest and his two disciples.

“Send your Master my regards, and have Wukong find us in the woods at the bottom of the mountain,” Xuanzang had told Qingfeng before taking his final leave, luggage and pupils in toll.

Bajie had attempted to strike conversation on the way down, topics all variants of how Wukong revived the tree, and Wujing had been more than willing to say “shut up” on Xuanzang’s behalf. The monk stayed silent the whole way, mind lost on other matters.

Mingyue’s warning from the afternoon bothered him much more than he’d let on. Because he knew his first disciple, and he knew his first disciple. And he knew how far and how far Wukong’s devotion could go. He was the rain that would chase away the drought, but then he’d become the storm, a violent unyielding force that a part of Xuanzang feared even he could not hold.

While Bajie and Wujing set up camp beside him, arguing amongst themselves for the best spot to sleep, Xuanzang heard a noise in the trees. Buddha’s crop in hand, he left the log he’d perched on and stood in front of the fire Wujing had sloppily lit.

He smelled the blood first.

Bent over his staff, the first disciple stepped into view, eyes downcast, and rags stained with blood, far more than Xuanzang remembered. The scent of alcohol mixed in with iron as the monkey neared. And stopped.

“Wukong?” he said, “how did it go?”

“Just fine.”

Wukong lifted his head enough to catch sight of the whip in Xuanzang’s grip. He chuckled dryly. “What, you don’t think so, Master?”

“Tell me the truth, monkey. How did you revive Zhenyuanzi’s tree?”

The monkey said nothing, and uneasy, Xuanzang pressed on, taking a step forward, “Did you have to kill…”

“One thousand infants. Isn’t that the number it needed?”

“Wukong, did you ?”

Say no, disciple, say no and I’ll believe you. Xuanzang felt himself freeze, limbs suddenly too stiff to move as his heart pounded. But Wukong only laughed again, harsh and cracked. Then he cocked that head and said, “Believe what you want, Baldy. Maybe you’re right.”

Xuanzang: “Would it kill you to give a straight answer!?”

Wukong: “Answer for what? Just hit me .”

The lash struck out, catching the monkey on the arm. Wukong shrunk and stood on, making no move to block the next hit. The whip streaked over his shoulder as Xuanzang moved his hand back.

“Fine!” the monk said, “if you’re too cowardly to admit it! Haven’t I taught you to avoid a life of sin!?”

“Whatever! More hitting, less talking-”

The whip smacked his mouth before Wukong could finish.

Xuanzang: “Don’t be so casual! Have you any idea how great a sin you’ve committed!?”

He felt the crop strike its target again, but instead of Wukong’s familiar cry, Xuanzang heard a new voice shout in pain, young and spritely.

Ao Lie: “Stop!”

The prince had a hand over the lash, having caught it midair. Wincing, the dragon said, desperate, “Venerable elder, stop!”

Xuanzang blinked, Ao Lie’s unprecedented return taking him by complete surprise. He stared down at the prince, Ao Lie’s grip clenching over the whip, green drawn from his palm. Bajie and Wujing stood behind their Master, gaping with shock.

“Please stop,” Ao Lie said, voice strained like a begging child, “big brother, he didn’t-”

Behind him, that cudgel slipped. And- thump!- the monkey fell, blood seeping into earth like vinegar over rice.

Chapter Text

Xuanzang dropped the whip, stunned as his mind struggled to register what had taken place. Fallen on his side, Wukong lay in the grass, turned away and eyes shut, blood spreading under him like endless ink. Wujing reached him first, pulled the monkey up by the shoulders, and shook him left and right as he shouted, “Boss, if you die, I’ll kill you!”

The monkey didn’t stir, limp in his grip. Bajie crawled over next, frantic as he tapped Wukong’s bruised face.

“Boss!” he cried, “he’s really out! What do we do!?”

Wujing: “Why are you asking me!?”

“Oh, eldest brother!” Bajie wailed, “how lost we are without you! Curse little brother’s stupidity!”

Ao Lie squished himself between both demons, tried to pull Wukong from Wujing’s hold, and said, “Stop touching him- you’re just making things worse!”

“He wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t for you!” Wujing hissed.

Ao Lie: “Me!?”

“We wouldn’t have touched that tree if you left it alone!”

“I didn’t tell you lot to touch it! It’s not my fault you’re such base barbarians!”

“I’ll show you base!” Wujing said, all but planting his face in front of Ao Lie’s own, the prince glaring defiantly back.

“Yes, yes, you’re both so handsome,” Bajie snapped, “so handsome you should shut up before the heavens strike you down for your good looks!”

Ao Lie seethed at the remarks, but the crumpled sight of their eldest brother pushed his anger aside. Instead, he said, “So what do we do now?”

Wujing: “Stop asking me!”

Ao Lie: “I wasn’t asking you! I was asking him !”

Bajie: “And I would know!?”

Then Wujing stood, Ao Lie and Bajie toppling to the ground as Friar Sand rose to his feet, the monkey slung across his arms. He turned to Xuanzang and said, “Master! Why are you standing around!? You want eldest brother to die or what!?”

The third disciple’s voice pulled Xuanzang back to reality: this had happened and he was here. The words, eldest brother , and die , seemed to be from a faraway tongue, sentiments that never before crossed his mind. He’d seen Wukong bleed, knew he scarred, and watched him walk away as if he’d never gone through anything of the sort. And for all his worry back in Wuzhuang, a part of him had known the monkey would pull through in the end.

Except Wukong hadn’t.

And now he lay flat, still as a corpse, and drenched in blood, blood that could have only been his own. This, Xuanzang realized, and for this, he threw the crop from his grip, watching as it smashed into the nearest tree.

Xuanzang: “Set- set him on the ground. Wujing, keep his head up.”

The fish complied, miraculously without complaint, and sat before Xuanzang, Wukong’s head balanced on his lap. Xuanzang knelt, swallowed, and lifted the monkey’s cloak, casting it aside to see what dwelled underneath. He bit back a near-curse.

The clothes were reduced to imperfect shreds, sullied with fresh and dry blood, flesh torn and maimed below. The Tang priest scanned his first disciple for the heaviest signs of injury, eyes coming to stop at the puncture on his torso, jagged and far too close to the gut for Xuanzang’s liking. From there, Xuanzang’s gaze trailed to the gash in his right shoulder, the grey burns splashed over his skin, and the telltale lacerations that snaked from top to bottom and limb to limb.

With shaking fingers, Xuanzang tugged on the remnants of cloth and peeled them off, unsure where the rest of that damage would begin or end. And still, more wounds made themselves known, until the monk’s eyes were used to blood and his hands wet with red.

“Master, I’m here to help!” Bajie said, popping behind Xuanzang so suddenly that the Tang priest gasped and tumbled, narrowly avoiding falling over Wukong by latching onto Wujing.

“Announce yourself, Bajie!” the monk snapped, “don’t just come up like that!”

“But I was worried, Master! You know how close eldest brother and I are!”

“We’re doing all the work here,” Wujing said, memories of blood on grass coming to the front of his mind. “Master, turn him around!”

The fish pushed Wukong up, Xuanzang and Bajie steadying their arms to keep the monkey upright, his head lolling to the side. As he suspected, Wujing saw the rips in his backside, a splotch of ugly crimson stretching over scapulae, glaring against the midst of angry marks made by Zhenyuanzi’s lash. Wujing ripped what appeared to be cloth away from Wukong’s skin and said, “Master, his back-”

Bajie: “His leg!”

Wujing: “There’s more ? Did he piss off heaven again!?”

Xuanzang looked down and there did appear to be a bleeding hole in his disciple’s knee. He half expected the demons to report on a hemmorage next or a ruptured lung or something of that severity.The more he inspected, the more it became clear it was a miracle that Wukong had even managed to walk this far.

“A little bit,” Ao Lie said in response to the fish’s question, having placed himself across from Xuanzang and beside Wujing, more than a little distracted by the free-flowing blood.

Xuanzang: “Mind explaining!?”

Bajie took that moment to slide away from Xuanzang and pull Wukong into his grip, pressing himself against the other demon’s upper body with a low moan. “You speak with him, Master, little brother and I will take care of eldest brother!”

“No!” Xuanzang said, “you two go get water. I’ll handle Wukong. Xiao Bailong, tell me everything after we staunch the bleeding!”

He trusted no one to touch Wukong in such a condition, not even (especially) Bajie and Wujing, with or without good intentions. The only one he’d ever treated with any sort of haphazard medical expertise was himself, and even that had been sloppy at best. But he couldn’t afford to be sloppy now, not with his first disciple’s life hanging by a thread. All other thoughts the Tang priest shoved out of his mind- every doubt and fear and hate- save one: Wukong needed him.

While the pilgrims struggled to patch their monkey up, Ao Lie knelt beside, awkwardly watching as the Tang priest worked into the dusk.

Chen Xuanzang was the most irritating mortal this side of Earth. The demons walked behind him, side by side as the Tang monk preached his teachings, clumsily tripping over every rock on the way. He all but beat their heads over with the Buddhist way, and if he dared use the word “Buddhist” again, Sun Wukong was sure he would have killed himself on the spot. Since the start of their journey west, each day stretched longer than the last, and this was the reason why.

“Do we have to call him Master?” Zhu Bajie mouthed, nudging his new brothers as they trekked.

“Let’s kill him and get on,” Wujing muttered.

“I couldn’t kill him,” Wukong said through clenched teeth, “what makes you think you can, asshole?”

In front, Xuanzang stopped, turned, and glared. “I heard that! Plotting murder against your Master? Do you three not fear my Buddha’s Sodding Palm?”

Bajie: “Sodding Palm?”

“I subdued your eldest brother with it! And do you know why I don’t talk about it? Because I’m lowkey, and I suggest you do the same if you ever want to escape your demonic fate.”

The memory of the palm’s burning wrath tingling against his skin. Wukong shuddered, turned that fear into anger over pride, and said, “You ever shut up, Baldy?”

At that, Xuanzang placed a hand over his scalp, as if remembering he no longer had hair… and all that followed. The monkey saw a glimpse of emotion flash by the monk’s face, no doubt reminded of that dead woman. How pathetic, he thought. Wukong sidled up to him and asked, “Got a problem with that, eh, baldy? Baldy, baldy-”

And the other two joined in: “Baldy, baldy!”

Xuanzang’s cheeks flushed from anger, but the priest said nothing otherwise. He clapped his hands together, whispered a prayer, and turned on his heels. Bored, Wukong stopped the chant, the other two demons following his lead. While Xuanzang tied a hat to his head, Wukong traced the gold band about his noggin- this was the only remnant of that woman, and why Xuanzang kept it there of all places beyond him. He thought of taking it off and tossing it into the river, but something prevented that action- laziness, perhaps. At least he could torture the Tang priest with its presence if he kept it on.

No way in hell was it guilt.

Tasked with getting rid of the bloodied rags, Bajie’s first instinct was to pass the chore onto Wujing, who took it on after a sharp “fuck you” to the pig’s face. And seeing that the second disciple was free, Xuanzang ordered him to gather more blankets, and knowing the Master was in no mood to argue, Bajie had no choice but to obey.

Xuanzang wiped a sleeve over his bleary eyes and adjusted the makeshift pile of cassocks he’d used to pillow Wukong’s head. Fanning the fire beside them, Ao Lie eyed his every move, somehow convinced that everyone was out to murder his big brother. The Tang priest wondered what Wukong’s reaction would be if he knew the dragon had become his self-appointed bodyguard. Knowing his first disciple’s almighty ego, it would likely be a variant of humiliation.

Duan’s golden band stood on a log, the monk having removed it to wipe the blood from Wukong’s head. The firelight cast flickering tendrils in the dark, and in that span of brightness, Xuanzang could make out the monkey’s features, unfamiliar in their stillness. There was no scowl, no smirk, not even a hint of consciousness in his tired countenance; but there was a lurking sadness, evident in his battered face, and the Tang priest couldn’t help but think, This is the face that caused havoc in heaven? The rest of him was swaddled in bandages, skin stitched and cleaned underneath.

Xuanzang rubbed his sore hands, digits numb from tending those numberless wounds. He heard Bajie’s incoming footsteps when he reached to pull the quilt up to the monkey’s chin. Ao Lie had told him all that transpired not long before and that story did nothing but give the monk more cause to worry. Because now he wondered if Wukong would even want to wake up.

“Bad monkey,” he mumbled, “lying to me like this.”

Perhaps Wukong wanted another beating- he’d always been a bit of a masochist. But the fact that he’d been so sure Xuanzang would comply, so sure Xuanzang would jump to the worst conclusion, made the Tang priest pause. Perhaps a part of him had wanted to believe the worst of his disciple, had wanted to righteously punish him to ease his own guilt from Wuzhuang. But in the end, all it did was increase the guilt twofold.

Xuanzang: “I’m sorry.”

At night, the Tang priest slept far from his disciples, thrashing from nightmares in a tangle of scratchy blankets as the demons pointed and laughed. They made bets on what his dreams were ma de of, and in the morning, Wukong would ask, only for the Master to snap at him and threaten to use that palm. But the monkey had bad dreams too, so it was with a sadistic vindication that he watched the monk bristle.

He dreamt of the Buddha’s Sodding Palm, as hot against fur as Tathagata’s own. He dreamt of Five Finger Mountain and its curling lashes, of an everlasting punishment in isolation.

The Master must have dreamt of Five Finger Mountain and its demon too. He must have screamed in his nightmares as he watched that woman die, again and again, as he lay powerless, weak, still.

And in answer to the Master’s worries, all Buddha had done was order him on. Let go, their journey seemed to say, Let go of her. But Xuanzang could not let go. The pain was evident in his eyes, in the gait of his walk, in his pitiful attempts to meditate.

“Why does he bother?” Wujing asked.

“He’s stupid, that’s why,” Bajie said.

Wukong had been inclined to agree, but instead, he said, “No, Baldy’s a strange one.”

Then Wujing and Wuneng had tried to smother the monk in his sleep. This alone had angered the monkey beyond belief, that they would dare go behind his back, that they would dare touch the target that was rightfully his. So he whipped out the cudgel and beat them both green and blue until blood gushed high. Xuanzang awoke screaming, and the night ended with the Master whipping him red and raw as the other disciples looked on in schadenfreude.

It became a game for Wukong, then. He’d seen how far he could push the Master before a beating would occur, and he soon discovered the bar was not particularly far. The Tang priest stirred less at night when he used the whip, as if its use alone kept his nightmares at bay. But it was just a game to the monkey, a reaction he pulled from the monk out of boredom- that was what Wukong told himself. Because he could care less how well Xuanzang slept. This, he also told himself. And this, he told the other two.

And even so, he bore the scars without complaint.

Wukong shivered, violently shuddering as Ao Lie fought to keep him still. The prince kept his hold tight, but found himself limited by the risk of reopening the demon’s wounds should he increase his weight even by a fraction. The alternative was leaving Wukong be and letting him pop every stitch. He looked to Xuanzang for help and said, “Venerable elder- I can’t hold him!”

By the dragon’s side, Xuanzang could feel the heat rolling off Wukong’s body, the throes of demonic fever practically burning through skin. He stretched a hand and brushed the monkey’s forehead, yelping at the sensation in his stung fingers. This was no human fever and he highly doubted any amount of cold water would be able to cool it down.

“If you can’t do it, then don’t!” Wujing said.

Bajie: “Master, allow me!”

“Nobody asked you two!” Ao Lie shouted.

Xuanzang turned his gaze on the two demons sitting behind him, each holding a wooden bucket filled to the brim with water. When the fever first came to light, he’d thought of letting Wujing hold Wukong down, but knowing the fish’s temper, coupled with Ao Lie’s insistence to stay by the monkey’s side, he decided against it. Such a combination would result in one wrong move leading to Wukong’s death, and that would render their attempts to keep him alive all for naught.

“Xiao Bailong,” the monk said, “you can rest. I’ll do it.”

“But-”

“I’ll do it.”

The Tang priest allowed no room for argument. He moved himself behind Wukong as Ao Lie reluctantly released him from the front. Xuanzang curled on his side and pulled Wukong into his embrace, arms tightening around those continuous chills as he pressed his own chin over the demon’s head. He felt as if he was holding a ball of fire, not unlike Honghaier’s own. And against the sudden sweat breaking from his skin, Xuanzang held on, muscles clenched as he grappled against that fierce thrashing.

On the other side of the campfire, Ao Lie and the disciples watched, awaiting the monk’s next order. It never came. Xuanzang kept his arms circled around the monkey far longer than Ao Lie managed, and this did not go unnoticed by the silent disciples.

“Baldy’s really outdid himself,” Bajie muttered, “Bit too late for him to get cozy with the Boss now, isn’t it?”

“When it comes to the Boss, Master’s always a step too late,” Wujing replied, gaze on Xuanzang’s steadfast shape, “but it doesn’t matter to him now. Eldest brother’s wounds are infected- he’s dying and Master knows.”

“Shut your ugly mouths,” Ao Lie said, “big brother’s not going to die.”

The dragon didn’t wait for their retort. With a flap of his robes, he stood and crossed over to the other side of their camp, plopping himself down by Xuanzang and the first disciple.

“So we’re picking sides now, is that it?” Bajie mused.

Xuanzang’s hold remained solid as he kept the monkey in place, body against body and limb over limb, rigid to the point that Wukong had no room to inch out. It was a familiar sight, but this time, the monk was not holding Duan. This time, he was awake, and he knew full well who was in his grip.

Wujing: “Sides, my ass.”

The Tang priest liked to spend hours on end sitting under the moon as he stared into space. The disciples knew who he thought of, and they knew how pointless a venture it was. She was dead and she would not come back.

“So it’s alright for him to ogle Chang’er, but I can’t?” Bajie said, the demons eyeing their Master from a distance.

Wukong: “Idiot, he’s not looking at Chang’er.”

“Then who-?”

Wujing: “Miss Duan.”

That woman’s name was Duan. Wukong admitted that if not for Wujing, he would have never have given her name a second thought. He knew her as Baldy’s woman, and that was that. She was pretty as far as humans went, braver than most, he supposed, and if nothing else, her love for him had been true. The sentimentality left a sour taste in his mouth.

But what Wukong remembered most about Duan was not those seconds before her death. It was the lithe movement of her body as she danced under moonlight. She was good at it, beautiful, strong, filled with heart. Back then, he’d remember thinking, How could that monk not fall for her?

Then as Xuanzang’s nightmares gave way to pleasant dreams, a new pattern took hold, much to Bajie’s amusement. It didn’t seem to matter how far the monkey slept from the Tang priest- someway, somehow, the monk found his way behind Wukong and held him as he never held her. It happened with little frequency but it disturbed him each time all the same. (And yet, he could never bring himself to kick that bastard away. He did not fear retribution. He did not fear at all. He only felt the dull gnawing sting of something he could not place.)

And once, as the Master held him with that disgusting grip, Wukong wondered if a good fantasy would make him stop. He shifted, then, shrinking and twisting until his body gave way to curves and breasts, long hair trailing over shoulders, and bow lips where his scowl once lay. Because when all was said, he remembered exactly what Duan looked like. And this was her mirror image.

Xuanzang opened his eyes, half asleep and weary. He smiled.

“You’re here,” he whispered.

“I am,” Wukong said, her voice mimicked to a perfect pitch.

“This is a nice dream, isn’t it?”

He put a thin finger against the monk’s mouth, shook that pretty head, and said, “No, this is real. You snore, you know that?”

Xuanzang’s eyes glistened in the moonlight, as if willing himself to believe Duan was truly there and too tired to doubt. “You don’t like it?”

“I like everything about you.”

“I like everything about you too.”

He moved in for a kiss, and in a panic, Wukong pushed his face away, near squishing Xuanzang’s lips in the process. Wincing, the Tang priest chuckled and said, “You don’t want to? Ah, that’s fine. Let’s just stay together.”

He reached down and tangled his fingers with Wukong’s own, that look of disbelief still in his sleepy eyes, as if it registered for him that Duan was flesh and blood and long dead all the same. “Like this, alright? Let’s stay like this forever.”

“All right.”

Not long after, slumber took hold of Xuanzang once more and Wukong cast away Duan’s shape, finger still clutched in the priest’s own. Kill him now, a voice seemed to say. And gazing from the corner of his eye, he realized that voice belonged to Bajie. But the monkey didn’t do anything.

He lay facing Xuanzang for the rest of the night, wondering what it was about this man that Duan found worth dying for. And in the morning, the Tang priest would awake and find a rock clutched in his hand.

Wukong’s fever was far from gone, but it pleased Xuanzang enough to know that it had broken at the very least. Again, the monk rubbed the bruises left on his chest by Wukong’s wriggling, grabbed the wet rag Ao Lie had left, and dipped it in a bucketful of water. He squeezed it dry and dabbed at the monkey’s face, still warm and tight with pain. Xuanzang dunked the rag again, wrung the water out, and let it rest against his disciple’s head.

The monkey still shook every now and then, but his body stayed in place as it soaked his covers with sweat, dampening the bandages below. Xuanzang wondered how much time had indeed passed, for it seemed to pause with no dawn in sight. Across the fire, his two disciples slept, back to back, having dozed off as they waited for the Master’s next order.

Ao Lie returned then, Xuanzang’s canteen in hand. He sat by the Tang priest and said, “Venerable elder, here.”

Wordless, Xuanzang took it, shifted to cradle Wukong’s head, and tipped the top into Wukong’s mouth, carefully gauging the trickle of water into the monkey’s throat. The task finished, Xuanzang set the canteen aside, lowered Wukong once more, and returned to cooling the rag on his head.

Ao Lie watched him work, gaze never leaving the first disciple, and assured that the other two were fast asleep, he dared to ask: “Who’s Duan?”

The Tang priest froze, hands stiffening as he lifted his eyes to meet the dragon’s own.

“You ate her, remember?”

Ao Lie shook his head, the pig’s words again surfacing to the front of his mind and refusing to leave. He killed Duan too . With everything in such a state, he felt it best to ask and be over with it. He knew for certain how Wukong felt for the Tang priest- Wukong had told him himself and then, there had been no cause for doubt. But he’d seen the vitriol in Xuanzang’s blows when Wukong returned with the Ginsengfruit Tree, and Ao Lie found himself wondering if perhaps the monk would rather big brother die. And yet, the opposite seemed to hold true.

And so, he said, “Not the horse. Is Duan why you hate big brother so much?”

Xuanzang seemed to stop breathing. Then, slowly, he did. The monk sighed, beckoned Ao Lie closer, and said, “No, I don’t hate your eldest brother.”

He placed the rag back on Wukong’s head. “Not anymore.” He hadn’t hated the monkey in a long time, this much he knew.

“Miss Duan was a woman very dear to me.”

“Then why did you name a horse after her?”

“Xiao Bailong, you swallowed that horse. Please stop mentioning it. And there are things you’re too young to understand.”

“I’m three hundred.”

Amused, Xuanzang smiled and looked into the distance, curls of fire smoke rising into the pitch sky. Xiao San* was the last person he shared Duan’s story with, but it hadn’t been Duan she’d been interested in- it had been the impossible task of taking Duan’s place. Amitabha, he thought to himself. But the dragon wanted to know Duan, and this, Xuanzang was willing to answer.

“She was an exorcist,” he continued, “much more skilled than me. And one way or another, for some strange reason, she fell in love with me. She thought I was kind, and even though I’m very low key about my virtues, Xiao Bailong, I’m still not sure if I am kind.”

Ao Lie had yet to forget Wukong’s words from Flower Fruit Mountain, and again, he found himself wondering just what was so great about the Tang priest. The man was a mess of contradictions, as arrogant as he was humble, as cruel as he was kind, the exact opposite of what he’d expect from an enlightened monk. So he listened on.

“At first, I thought she wasn’t right in the head. She did a lot of things I’m not sure how to describe. I used to be very insulted.”

“I don’t want to know what she did.”

Xuanzang chuckled. “I’ll spare you, then.”

He flicked his gaze towards Wujing and Bajie. “We met over subduing Wujing- he was just a river demon then. Then came Bajie… an unforgettable experience. Duan and I, we fought death together, fought each other, went through all of this. She was tougher than anyone I knew, but- she had a big heart, so big I didn’t know what to do.”

Xuanzang looked to Wukong again, voice straining as he came to the tale’s end. “Then we met Wukong… and everything was fine at first. The three of us captured Bajie together and parted ways, or should have. I made Duan leave, and Wukong- I was dumb enough to believe five hundred years was all it took to redeem him.”

“You let big brother out?”

“I freed Wukong from Five Finger Mountain, but he was a demon like the rest, and he resisted us to the end- he killed Duan’s companions and tried to kill me.”

He rubbed his scalp. “Pulled all my hair clean off- don’t laugh- and it’s yet to grow back. And you know what the craziest part was? Duan came back for me. I pushed her away so many times and she still came back- she had every right to walk away.”

He killed Duan too . Ao Lie knew how the story would end now, had suspected from the start.

“I loved Miss Duan,” Xuanzang said, clutching his chest, “and I know none of you can understand. I don’t fault you, or Wujing, or Bajie, or even Wukong. But I loved her, I loved her so much.”

“She’s dead,” Ao Lie said, a tint of understanding in his voice.

“And I couldn’t do a thing. I watched Wukong kill her and I couldn’t do a thing. She died for me and I let her. But it was through losing her that I understood what Lord Buddha wanted from me- and the Sodding Palm came to be.”

Xuanzang gestured at his three disciples, a pained smile in his eyes. “And here’s all that remains now, the four of us and the road to the western paradise.”

Chin in his palm and elbow over knee, the prince stated, matter-of-factly, “I don’t understand.”

Xuanzang raised a brow. “Go on.”

“Any of it. Venerable elder, my father has five wives- you’re right when you say I wouldn’t understand the love between you and Miss Duan. I don’t. But hatred, I have no problem with. How can you not hate Lord Tathagata for these trials? How can you not hate big brother for what he did? How can you not leave him to die right now?”

Xuanzang blinked, as if pondering these questions for the very first time, and said, “I don’t dwell on them… the Buddhist way is what I chose- nobody forced me but myself. And I don’t blame your big brother for what he is. Bajie and Wujing would have committed the same crime if they had the chance. What’s done is done. I accepted them as my disciples and I believe I can make them better- that’s all there is to it.”

“Seriously!?”

“You don’t like my answer?”

Ao Lie kept the shock from twisting over his face- that answer had been far too simple and it truly disturbed him to know the Tang priest would stick to every word. For all his scheming, all his wisdom, the monk was every bit as naive and forward as the rest believed. Or perhaps Xuanzang did know how stupid his reasoning was, perhaps he knew and didn’t care because this was who he was, the man Duan had died for, that Sun Wukong would have died for.

And for the first time, Ao Lie felt he might have understood Tang Sanzang.

“Nevermind,” the dragon said.

“Then have I satisfied your curiosity?”

“Yes, venerable elder.”

“Good.” Xuanzang cast him one more smile before resuming his watch over the first disciple.

“Venerable elder?”

“Yes?”

“Big brother thinks you’re kind too.”

“Here,” Xuanzang said, handing him a folded cassock, far too large and thick to wear as a sash, “I can’t have you running around in those rags. Wear this if you’re cold.”

Wukong rolled his eyes. “I can’t catch chills. Who do you think I am, you?”

“You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to. Give it back, then-”

“Fuck you. It’s mine now.”

Xuanzang shook his head in exasperation and turned to the side, sucking at his pricked fingers, having spent the good portion of the morning patching up that dusty cassock. Wukong rolled it out to its full size, the cloth coarse and blue and patched with red.

“How kind of you, Master!” Bajie said, coming up to peek over Wukong’s shoulder, “what beautiful handiwork this is, isn’t that right boss?”

Wujing: “Master, is this favoritism!?”

Wukong: “Just shut up, both of you!”

“Wujing, you won’t fit in my clothes and Bajie, I know you detest hand-me-downs. Master always strives to treat you fairly,” Xuanzang said, more than a little too cocky.

Wujing scoffed at the answer while Bajie was quick to agree, and clutching the cassock, Wukong couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He dismissed it as soon as it came- why would the stupid monk favor him of all people anyway?

But Xuanzang had sewn a hood onto it. And for all intents and purposes, that cassock had effectively become a cloak.

The monk was particularly good to the three of them that morning. He collected water, cooked, packed, cleaned instead of tasking each of them. He did nothing to chide their roguish tongues and looked at their devilish actions with a gentle smile. He was so kind and mild, and uncharacteristically him, that if not for those fiery eyes, Wukong would have assumed a demon had murdered and taken the Tang priest’s place.

Then, shortly after lunch, the Master cast his beads aside and went for a stroll, leaving no word behind as he disappeared into the woods. The demons lazed about in his absence, cursed him behind his back, and very well did nothing until a drizzle forced them to pitch a tent. Wukong slipped into the old-new cloak.

“Baldy’s going to fall ill in this rain,” Bajie said hopefully, arms crossed behind his head.

“Or slip and die,” Wujing said, before adding, “I hope.”

“Well, boss, what do you think will happen to Baldy?”

“Don’t know,” Wukong said, “don’t care.”

But the rain showed no signs of lightening or deepening, and should the Tang priest die, Wukong doubted Tathagata would forgive them so easily. He swung the rod-now-stick across his shoulders and left their tent, unwilling to spare another second. The monk’s footprints were light but easy enough to track, and so, Wukong wandered over broken twigs and leaves, yellow and red and green, until he followed a sloping path onto a mossy cliffside. If he cared for such things, he would have found it rather picturesque: bird nests atop curved trees, plum and cherry blossoms tangled by twos, pink and purple and red all about.

It was a dent in the cliff edge that caught his eye, small enough to be manmade, rough enough to be fresh, and large enough to be done by foot. The monkey dropped to all fours and stared down, gaze falling over the edge and into an outgrowth of earth below, a broken cave lying under. The scent of blood was unmistakeable.

He couldn’t breathe.

For a split second, the Great Sage Equaling Heaven lost all control.

He jumped.

Wukong landed, rolled to his feet, and rushed into that cave, knocking aside every branch and stone in his way. He stopped when he saw the monk’s familiar shape, Xuanzang sprawled against the rocky wall as his chest rose and fell. In a daze, the Tang priest looked up and mumbled, “Monkey?”

Xuanzang’s head glistened with blood, layered with red from eye past nose. Wukong bent and looked him over, the monk holding what appeared to be a broken finger and his leg dangling uselessly at his side. Wukong touched his ankle and Xuanzang hissed.

Wukong: “It’s twisted.”

“I knew that.”

The monkey pieced two and two together. Xuanzang must have slipped from the spot up top and tumbled his way into the cave- that explained his bad ankle. It did not explain the red stains on the wall. And for the second time, a bout of unexplained horror overtook the Great Sage.

“Your head was fine,” Wukong whispered.

“What-”

“You were hitting it against the wall here.”

“Wukong-”

“You were trying to die.”

Xuanzang said nothing, sinking back into the shadows, as if Wukong’s realization was nothing, as if what he did was nothing. He didn’t slip. He jumped.

Wukong grasped the front of his robes and yanked him up, Xuanzang crying out with pain. The monkey tossed him in front and roared, “You want to die so badly, fine! I’ll kill you right now!”

He lifted the cudgel, prepared to swing down, and stopped midway. Xuanzang shook before him, rocking himself back and forth as the tears fell freely.

“What, now you don’t want to die!?”

“No, I’m happy. Do it, monkey. She’s waiting. And I can’t- I can’t wait anymore.”

He knew who she was: Duan. And of its own will, Wukong’s mind flashed to the night before, when he took her form and let the monk’s fantasies take root in the flesh He had wanted to stay with her forever, had a moment with her back, and decided that he wanted to be with her again. An unfamiliar unease sank in- guilt.

“Just do it, you coward! I deserve it- it should have been me, not her! You know this!”

But had he even had the chance to mourn her? Wukong steadied the cudgel, imagined the monk’s brains spilling out- Xuanzang went west immediately- exactly as he wanted - with Duan’s killer at his side- and Tathagata be damned- faced nothing but pain and failure- he’d never have to put up with the monk again- and must have wondered if it’d all been for nothing- but he did nothing.

Wukong set the staff down, ripped off his scarf and wound it about Xuanzang’s head, the priest fighting to shove him away. But he was unyielding.

“You talk too much, Baldy,” he growled, watching the cloth soak blood, “and I don’t understand a single word. I killed Duan, not you- why’d you go and do this, then? Just hit me!”

He grabbed Xuanzang’s hand, the left and its broken index finger, and smacked it against his own cheek. Again and again. “Hit me, damn you! Hit! Me! What kind of holy man are you!? You think Buddha’s going to let this slide, think you can get away abandoning us like this? Think I’m going to go west for you!? Fuck! Of course I’m not! Fuck you!”

Xuanzang sobbed, whether from physical pain or more, Wukong couldn’t tell, but eventually the monk relented, burying himself against the monkey’s shoulder with a muffled shout of, “Let me go, bad monkey! I’ll make you regret this treatment!”

“Go ahead!”

“Fine! Get me out of here already!”

After a period of what felt like days, master and disciple began their hike up and down the cliff, Xuanzang on Wukong’s back, arms wrapped around the monkey’s neck, neither willing to look at the stains on the wall. They said nothing on the way down and said nothing still when they returned to camp, the rain showering over as Wukong dressed the Master’s wounds. He brought Xuanzang his food and tended the fire for the night, ignoring the underlings’ inquiries all the while.

He sat by Xuanzang as the monk slept, silencing Bajie and Wujing with glares every so often. Later, Bajie would ask if it was pity that drove him on, for it was a pitiful sight that priest made that night. Wujing would ask if it was spite. But Wukong knew it was neither.

Xuanzang: “Stinking monkey.”

Wukong: “Damn Baldy.”

The monk went back to sleep and save his ailments, all would go back to normal in the dawn. But it wouldn’t, this Wukong knew. Something changed for him that night, and perhaps it had changed already and taken him all this time to finally see. He did not hate Chen Xuanzang. For some reason even he couldn’t fathom, he admired his every step west, admired this man for what he was, resented him for what he was, and accepted him all the same. And it was unbearable to know the Tang priest didn’t see himself in such a light, because as far was Wukong was concerned, he very well should.

Because it wasn’t the Buddha’s Sodding Palm that made his Master the great Xuanzang, it was the great Xuanzang that made the Buddha’s Sodding Palm.

He wanted to protect this man and take him west- it had nothing to do with Buddha’s words or the Sodding Palm. This, Wukong finally admitted. And so long as he breathed, no harm would dare fall on the Tang priest.

Xuanzang replaced the cloth on Wukong’s head, its predecessor too far soaked with sweat and blood. The monkey was still fast asleep and showed no signs of waking any time soon. He pulled the blankets down to the first disciple’s waist, checking to see if the bandages still held. To his relief, they stayed in-tact and free of blood. And eyeing the dressings and scars that bound Wukong’s skin, his mind looped back to the day Ao Lie first came.

The monkey had been wounded that day and Xuanzang paid no mind. And now he wondered if his disciple would be this bad off if he had showed more concern, if perhaps he hadn’t been so quick to take Wukong for granted.

“He’ll be fine, right?” Ao Lie asked, across from where the monk sat.

“I don’t know.”

The truth was he honestly did not know. He’d never seen Wukong take this much damage, let alone this amount of injury.

“But I think so.”

But Xuanzang was not about to let his disciple die, even if Wukong burst every stitch, even if his fever came back threefold, Xuanzang would tend him again and again. He’d let Wukong down too many times to count, but not this time. This time, he would stay by the monkey’s side.

“Whenever any of us fell ill at home,” the prince said, “father would never come. Always the servants.”

“I’m sure your father means well.”

“No, he thinks the task beneath him. This is how he was raised, how we were raised. But venerable elder, I think it makes a difference- I think we would have recovered faster if we knew he cared.”

And Ao Lie was sure the monk cared for Wukong. The Tang priest would not have stayed awake this long otherwise. But he could say the same for himself- he’d stayed unmoving all this time, listening to those demons snoring, all for that monkey’s sake. It was a strange realization, not unlike the one he had back in Mount Huaguo- that Prince Ao Lie would stay up to wait on a demon. And it didn’t bother him at all.

“It’s too late for Wukong to notice my efforts,” Xuanzang said, bemused, “but I should hope it doesn’t surprise him.”

He placed a hand on the monkey’s head and pushed a tangle of hair back. “The Immortal Zhenyuan shouldn’t have hurt him this badly. At least half his blows, he took for the rest of us. And do you know why, Xiao Bailong?”

“His ego?”

Xuanzang laughed. “Yes. And also because, believe it or not, your big brother is actually very selfless.”

He pulled up Wukong’s covers again. “But he won’t say so because he’s low-key.”

“Big brother’s odd.”

“That he is. So Xiao Bailong, remember this.”

Ao Lie watched Xuanzang dip the cloth in water once more and rest his hand atop the monkey’s forehead.

“Big brother thinks he can protect us all,” Xuanzang said, fingers ruffling that tousle of dark hair, “but sometimes, we have to protect big brother.”

Ao Lie let those words run over. He nodded, deciding any mortal worthy of the Great Sage’s devotion was worthy of his. “I will-”

Then he dropped to his knees, kowtowed before the Tang priest, and said, “ Master .”

Xuanzang blinked in surprise as the dragon knelt before him. Ao Lie had returned and this time, he vowed to stay on the western path. Whatever it was that swayed him at long last, Xuanzang did not know, but he accepted this choice as the prince’s own. And so, he smiled in response.

Xuanzang: “Welcome back, Xiao Bailong, prince Ao Lie.”

Glancing at the exchange with hooded eyes, Bajie whispered with barely moving lips, “Well, well, Boss is still alive and the brat’s come back.”

As the fire between their camp crackled on, Wujing yawned and said, “I can handle the brat.”

“And what about me-?”

“I don’t care.”

“Figures.”

While they bickered, Xuanzang turned his gaze to the string of hazy smoke rising from that warm fire, Ao Lie following suit and Wukong lying still between them, the sky sliding into dawn overhead.

And before he left the Mountain of Flower and Fruit, Ao Lie turned to Puti and asked, “What will you do now, Master?”

“I’ll have to go back to Three-Star Cave and let everyone know I’m alive. Whatever happens next, I think I can handle.”

“Are you sure?”

Puti stroked his beard and smiled gently. “I’ll have to be.”

Ao Lie looked to the sky, Wukong having long since sailed away, and said, “I’m worried about big brother…”

“I know. Follow him if you wish.”

Then the dragon looked down, feet shifting nervously. He bit his lip. “Master, I’m not sure if I’ll come back…”

Puti patted his head. “Not sure? That true, Ao Lie?”

The prince said nothing and the Master looked into the distance. “So I guess that’s another disciple I’m losing to the Tang monk… Tang Sanzang, he’s really something.”

Ao Lie dipped down and kowtowed. “Ao Lie thanks you, Master, for everything and should you ever need me, I shall come.”

“Cut the formalities and come here.”

They shared a final embrace before the prince slid into a snaking body of white scales streaking over sky. From the remains of Flower Fruit Mountain, Puti stood and bid the dragon farewell as he took off after Wukong’s trail, and there, he knew his disciples would never return.

Chapter Text

The leaves sang in the rise of dawn, cooled by soft winds and tips dripping with morning dew. Sunlight dribbled in between cracks in the looming sky, dimmed by stretching clouds and the shade of high trees. Left hand powdering his masked visage, the second disciple admired the scene, right palm smoothing the wrinkles of his silk skirt. It was a poetic sight by all accounts and if not for the sour mood of his companions, he would have shared the poem swelling in his heart.

The third disciple stooped a good few steps away, burning what remained of their firewood as he tended the pots and pans. Gilled face blank, he looked to the pig and asked, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Bajie: “Since when did you have a menu?”

“Answer the damn question!”

“Keep it down,” Bajie hissed, “boss is still asleep.”

The fish glanced behind his shoulder, met with the sight of their Master’s backside a wagon’s length away, Tang Xuanzang slouched in meditation and bundled in that dust-colored cassock. And in the monk’s shadow, the first disciple lay, up to his chin in covers and as comatose as he’d been the night before. The dragon prince was curled beside him, snoring lightly as a small trail of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Wujing turned back and threw a blue hand around the nearest handle. “Congee or soup, make your choice.”

“I don’t know, soup?”

“I’m making congee.”

“Then why’d you ask!?”

“Why can’t I ask!?”

Bajie dismissed the argument with a snide wave of his hand. He adjusted his hat, gaze sliding towards the eldest disciple yet again, and said, “Don’t you find it strange? The boss, he’s usually so strong. Nothing touches him, and now… look at him- ill, injured, more helpless than a tadpole. Anything can kill him now. Even you.”

Then, silent, he pointed at himself and said with vague surprise, “Even me… I could walk up there right now and he couldn’t do a thing.”

Wujing: “No shit.”

The third disciple returned to his cooking, stirring rice and water as Bajie hovered beside him. Wujing had no desire to hear whatever else Bajie had to say, especially if it was nothing more than stating the obvious. He estimated a good hour before the fresh congee would be edible, and until then, his eyes remained glued to the task at hand. His concentration was disrupted when a warm hand clapped his back. Expecting Bajie, he turned and met the tired eyes of their Master, framed with evident dark bags.

“Good morning,” Xuanzang said, an empty pail in his hands.

“Congee’s not ready yet,” Wujing replied.

Xuanzang smiled, removed his hand, and walked on. “I know. Keep at it.”

“Master!” Bajie said, coming up to rub the priest’s shoulders, “how tired you must be. If only there was something we could do to soothe your worries!”

Xuanzang: “Actually there is something you can do for me.”

Ignoring Wujing’s laughter, the pig said, “Come again?”

“Since we’re at the foot of Longevity Mountain, you can help Master out by looking for danshen roots. I think they can help with the infection in your eldest brother’s wounds.”

“Red sage? Surely big brother won’t need to resort to mortal medicine.”

“ Wuneng .”

“Yes?”

“Be quiet and go fetch those herbs. I’m being very patient with you right now.”

“Of course, Master! Right away!”

And with a forced laugh, the second disciple bowed and sprinted off, robes trailing as he disappeared into the nearest thicket of trees. Xuanzang watched him go with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his sore head, no doubt aching from a combination of Zhenyuanzhi’s blast and bitter insomnia. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before and he felt as if he was walking on numb clouds. But he wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway, not with that monkey in such a perilous condition.

Legs stiff from sitting, he opted to go for a rejuvenating walk, though Xuanzang was sure all he’d end up doing was washing his face. The prospect was tempting regardless. He eyed the bucket, lighter than he remembered, and said, “I’m going to gather some water for the day. Wujing, which way to the stream?”

“Straight ahead,” the fish said, eyes refusing to leave the boiling pot, “Go left at the clearing. Congee’s not ready yet.”

You already said that. But the Tang priest decided against voicing that thought. He made to move on when he was stopped by the dragon- no, the fourth disciple’s shout.

“Master!” the prince called, stumbling after the monk on uneven feet, sleeves dabbing at the corners of his mouth.

Ao Lie blinked the sleep from his eyes, holding back a yawn as he ran to the Master’s side. “Wait- wait for me. Where are you going?”

“To the stream. Xiao Bailong, why don’t you come along and freshen up?” Xuanzang looked him up and down, the disheveled prince in sore need of a morning cleanup.

Without argument, Ao Lie nodded and the pair went on their way, Xuanzang tilting his head to say, “Wujing, take care of your big brother!”

“Congee’s not ready,” was the grunted reply, and Xuanzang assumed that was Wujing’s way of saying “fine.”

Ao Lie looked at his reflection with disgust, unsure when or how he woke up in such a state. Sleeping in the wild, it’s making me a vagabond like them . He knelt on the bank, grass tickling knees, and scooped a handful of stream into open palms. He splashed it over his face, the water cold and fresh against stiff skin, though it lacked the salty texture of his homeland.

He drank heartily before drying himself with the shoulder of his sleeve. The prince plucked the pins from his hair, held them with his teeth, and combed the fair locks back with his hands. Even if he vowed to stay with that lot, he’d sooner die than let himself look half as poor as the Tang priest’s pilgrims.

Beside his disciple, Xuanzang splashed water unto his eyes for the fifth or so time, lashes dripping wet as he finally felt himself wake up. He rubbed an arm over his eyes and caught sight of the brown stains on his wrist. His first instinct was mud before he remembered the events of the night before. It was blood.

Wukong’s blood.

Xuanzang stuck his hands into the stream and scrubbed, furiously rubbing skin against skin until his wrists went pink. The panic came back, that frozen fear and worry and all that followed with it. He refused to think on it. The first disciple was alive and that was all he needed- wanted- to know.

He inspected his hands to make sure they were properly cleaned and tried to shake them dry. He would collect the water, speak to Ao Lie, and wait for Wukong to wake up because that monkey had to wake up at some point. Then all would be as it was before. This, he was sure of, or so he hoped.

“Master,” Ao Lie said curiously, hair pinned back in place, “is it just me or is the sun getting… closer?”

“Say what?”

Xuanzang looked up, both hands shading his eyes as he squinted in the direction of an incoming light. Its beams stretched across the path of the sun and furled into a net of gold along the bobbing stream. And as the light sprinkled on, Xuanzang realized it was indeed aiming for the earth, flashing so bright he was convinced it’d swallow them both if they didn’t move.

“Xiao Bailong, let’s go!”

The monk turned, grabbing Ao Lie’s wrist as he prepared to dash for their lives. He ran, legs churning as fast as they would allow but he seemed to gain no distance. Before he could voice his worry, Ao Lie said, “Master, you’re not moving.”

“Yes I am- huh !?”

He looked down. He was indeed running but the ground stayed in place. Xuanzang looked behind his shoulder, only to see the mass of soft gold that enveloped them both and kept them in place. And gaping, the Tang priest had no choice but to stop his run and face the source of their newfound trouble.

Slowly, the light receded, pulling in until it formed the shape of a shimmering man, gold solidifying into a silk sash at his side and a long sword tucked between. As the aurora cleared, Ao Lie could make out the features of a handsome youth, slim and refined in face. Glowing, the newcomer approached them, not a strand out of place in his top knot and fine linen shoes gliding over the vapor along that stream.

“Who are you, venerable sir?” Xuanzang asked in awe.

Wujing: “Congee’s ready!”

Startled, Xuanzang turned in time to see the third disciple arrive, no doubt to the irritation of that heavenly young man.

“Wujing, we’re in the middle of a situ-,” Xuanzang tried to explain, but the fish cut him off by saying, “Congee’s ready. Master, get back here before it gets cold!”

“Who cares about your congee,” Ao Lie said, “it’s not that great anyway!”

“Oh! Like you’ve tried it, brat!?”

“I don’t have to try it to know it’s terrible!”

“You-” And before he could finish that insult, Wujing noticed the golden aurora in front of them and the scowl inching along the celestial’s face. Eyes bulging, the fish stepped back and pointed in his direction.

“You! You’re,” he said in shock, “Nezha’s brother!”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ao Lie stiffened, nervously watching the newcomer step forward, an obvious arch in his brow and that scowl now a full-on frown. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, glowered at Wujing, and flicked his fiery gaze on Xuanzang.

“Master Sanzang,” he said, “this one is Li Muzha, second son of Pagoda King Li and disciple to the Bodhisattva, Guanyin of the Southern Sea.”

Then he added, with no small trace of bitterness, “Third prince Nezha’s second eldest brother… as your knowledgeable disciple put it, though I’d prefer if you didn’t compare me to him .”

Xuanzang instantly kowtowed, feeling extremely unlucky, and said, “Your grace, please forgive my third disciple. He has an uncouth mouth and I’ll be sure to discipline him properly.”

And seeing the Master on his knees, Ao Lie dropped down and kowtowed too, comforted by the thought that should Li Muzha want to slaughter anyone, Wujing would be the first to die.

“General Juanlian was never good with words,” Muzha said with a forced chuckle, “but no matter. Tang Sanzang, I approach you today as both an emissary of the Bodhisattva and my father’s son.”

Xuanzang lifted his head and nervously asked, “Y- yes?”

“Your disciples, demon king Sun Wukong and the West Sea’s third heir, aided the escape of a criminal and that is no small crime in itself. The Bodhisattva issued a pardon for the deed, so for this, I’ll leave you be.”

Xuanzang: “Oh, that’s a great relief! Thank you, your grace!”

Muzha: “Please, don’t thank me yet, Master Sanzang.”

Li Jing’s second son put one foot forward and drew his sword, blade long and sharp in the light. “But that macaque demon did my father great injury and as his second heir, I cannot sit by. What kind of son would I be if I let this offense slide?”

Fears forgotten, Xuanzang jumped to his feet and said, “Wait, wait! I’m sure we can come to a better agreement. We’re all students of the Buddhist path and I know the Bodhisattva wouldn’t want this to end in a fight.”

“I’ll have my duel and be on my way. Sun Wukong broke my father’s arm and stole his pagoda, both of which are grave offenses to the name Li.”

“But,” Xuanzang said, struggling to find an excuse for his first disciple, “my student has immense power. I don’t doubt you can stand against him, but I fear he would cause you more inconvenience than he already has.”

At that, Muzha scoffed and reached into his sash with a free hand. He pulled out the tip of a broken spear point, coated with dry blood, and tossed it at Xuanzang’s feet. The Tang priest stared at the object, puzzlement on his face.

Muzha: “I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need. This is the tip of my father’s spear, covered in your eldest disciple’s blood. Father managed to do him injury and I trust the same in myself.”

“But big brother was already hurt when they fought!” Ao Lie said.

When all eyes turned to him, the dragon realized he had spoken his thought aloud. He pursed his lips and moved to hide behind Wujing, only to have the third disciple shove him back out.

“Do you doubt my father’s skill?” Muzha asked lowly.

Ao Lie looked to Xuanzang for help and as the Tang priest desperately searched for the right words to mend the conversation, an all too familiar voice answered Muzha’s query: “ And what if he does? ”

The celestial’s knuckles went white around his hilt, nostrils flaring as Xuanzang’s first disciple emerged from the woods across, twig between his teeth. Head rolling, Wukong cracked his neck and rubbed the popping joint, as-you-would cudgel placed across his cloaked shoulders, not a single rip or stain in his ragged clothes and not a bruise in sight. As far as Ao Lie could tell, the monkey was healed full-through, and a flood of relief washed over: Muzha was not going to kill them all today.

Muzha: “Sun Wukong! How dare you assault my father!?”

Eyes on his feet, Wukong tilted his head, dark hair rustling as he released an ugly chuckle. “Are you challenging me, boy? You couldn’t beat ol’ Sun five hundred years ago and you can’t do it now.”

“You wicked ape. Draw your weapon and let’s settle this now!” Muzha said, raising that blade into a fighting stance.

Slowly, Wukong let the staff slide into his hand and looked up, meeting Muzha’s eyes as that stick dangled by his mouth.

“Are you so sure about that?” he asked, “you really want a beating?”

“I’ll have your head and take back my father’s treasure,” Muzha said, teeth clenched.

“Ha! Kill me and you’ll never get that pagoda back.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a fact. I’m feeling generous today, Li. So why don’t you leave us be, eh?”

Breath coming out in angry pants, Muzha lowered his weapon and asked, reluctant, “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Where’s the pagoda, you damned ape!?”

Wukong grinned, halfway between a grimace and smile. “Hey brat, where is it?”

Caught off guard, Ao Lie blinked and said, “Me? Oh! It’s between Kunlun and Huaguo, somewhere off the coast of the east.” Or so he assumed- he would only have to hope he hadn’t lied by accident.

“Hear that?” Wukong said, “a deal’s a deal and you’re not the type to break one, are you?”

Muzha sheathed the sword, swallowed back an insult, and lowered his clenched fists.

Wukong: “So why dont’cha’ fuck off and go get that pagoda?”

“ Shut up .”

Muzha turned to Xuanzang and bowed. “Master Sanzang, this one will be on his way. I’ll hold your disciples accountable for the location of my father’s pagoda and we can consider this matter settled for the time being.”

The Tang priest kowtowed in return and professed his run-on thanks as Muzha hopped towards the sky, disappearing in a shower of fading light. Leaning on his cudgel, Wukong watched the second heir leave, chewing that twig with thin patience. The pilgrims kept their eyes on the sky, waiting until Li Muzha had indeed gone. Then, a collective breath was released.

Ao Lie all but jumped to Wukong’s side, bursting with excitement. “Big brother! Are you alright!?”

“Boss, took you long enough!” Wujing said from the other direction, “you woke up in time for congee!”

Only Xuanzang kept silent, watching and waiting for the inevitable. Wukong took the twig out with two fingers and sighed, slumping in relief as he shook and shifted into pale robes and a made-up face. Zhu Bajie was left standing in his place, twig still in hand, and cudgel now the nine-toothed rake.

Bajie: “I was pretty cool, wasn’t I?”

Wujing: “The fuck!? It was you!?”

“Well, you’re welcome , fishead, thanks to me, Li Muzha’s off our back!”

“Nezha’s brother would have killed you if you really fought.”

“We didn’t fight, did we? And it all turned out fine. Thanks to me!”

Ignoring the senior disciples’ banter and disappointment falling over, Ao Lie tugged on Bajie’s sleeve and asked, “Then where’s big brother?”

“What do you think?” Bajie said, “still out cold. He should be happy I care so much for him.”

The pig pulled out the red sage root from his belt. Xuanzang stepped forward then, placed a hand on Bajie’s shoulder and Ao Lie’s, and said, “You did well, Wuneng. Come on now, let’s all walk back. The congee’s ready.”

Ao Lie: “Master, did you know this pig- second brother was faking?”

Xuanzang smiled. “I might have. But I didn’t say anything because I’m low key.”

While the monk brewed his herbs, the pilgrims did little throughout the day, hovering about the campsite and enjoying the cover of high trees. They would not continue west until the first disciple’s condition was stable in the Master’s eyes, and until then, the other three were in no rush to move on. Li Muzha never returned and they could only assume he had found the pagoda, however damaged, without complication. Rest did not come easy and for that, even the smallest boredom was cherished.

Xuanzang changed the monkey’s dressings in the afternoon, Wujing once more holding him up and Ao Lie lingering beside. Traces of fever remained but they were nothing compared to the nightmare from before. The bandages were moist with sweat and blood, but if Xuanzang had been disgusted, he was excellent at hiding it in the opinion of his remaining disciples.

The Tang priest applied salve to each wound, minding their careful stitches, and gently binding the damaged flesh with fresh bandages. The worst of the bleeding had been stemmed, but Xuanzang trusted his instinct when it said something was terribly wrong: Wukong should have healed long ago and those fresh injuries should have since been scars.

“Master,” Bajie reported, coming to join the others as he pointed at the monk’s pot, “your danshen’s ready!”

Xuanzang looked up as Wujing set the monkey back onto that pile of blankets on the ground.

Xuanzang: “If it’s cooled, then bring it over!”

“Right away, Master!”

Before Bajie could turn back around, Ao Lie darted past him and cried, “Master, I’ll do it!”

Silently scoffing, the second disciple watched Ao Lie gather the concoction and return, with no regard for his senior brothers. Is this boy trying to make me look bad? Bajie sat on a log and pulled out his fan, already knowing the answer.

The liquified roots likely smelled as bitter as they tasted, and Ao Lie was glad to be rid of them when Xuanzang took the bowl from his hands and knelt to tip the inside into Wukong’s mouth. Ao Lie wasn’t sure how effective a human remedy would be, but he was sure the Tang priest was simply desperate to make big brother well.

“So what are you going to do about his clothes?” Wujing asked suddenly.

Ao Lie: “What kind of stupid ques-”

Xuanzang: “Xiao Bailong, wait. It’s a good question. Wukong’s robes were… ruined. We’re of similar height. I’ll find something of mine for him later.”

You’d still look like beggars anyway , Bajie thought as he nodded in agreement with the monk.

“If he doesn’t wake up today, what do we do?” Ao Lie said.

Wujing: “That’s a stupid question.”

Xuanzang: “No, Wujing, that’s a good question too. We can’t sit by and wait forever. We’ll just… put Wukong in the wagon and go on. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

The fish looked to his eldest brother and said flatly, “If he doesn’t wake up, I’ll kill him.”

Bajie: “You best mind your words. Boss won’t be happy to know what vile things you’ve said.”

Wujing: “Ha! You’re one to talk.”

While the second and third disciples bickered on, Xuanzang turned to Ao Lie and said, “Xiao Bailong, watch your brothers. All of them . I have a matter to attend to.”

“What matter?”

“One of the mind and heart. It’s too advanced for any of you to understand.”

And with that, the Tang priest cast Wukong a final glance before rising and walking into the forest, Wujing’s cry of, “ Now where are you going!?” ringing behind him.

The sky was the color of blood when Xuanzang finished his climb up the mountain’s side. He placed both hands on the rocky ground, aligned his knees, and kowtowed, repeating each gesture as he prayed: “Lord Buddha, your humble disciple, Chen Xuanzang, comes to you for help again. I know my eldest pupil is brash, violent, and yes, even a murderer, but as you yourself have said, he’s not hopeless. That ape’s been wounded terribly and I fear the worst of his condition. If you can, please let me know what ails his healing.”

With no answer save the chirping of cicadas, Xuanzang repeated his prayer, again and again until his head bruised and scraped. Deciding Tathagata wanted him to wait, Xuanzang crossed his legs and shut his eyes in meditation, mind concentrated on one thing only: his answer.

“Tang monk?”

Eyes snapping open, Xuanzang whirled around and nearly fell back when his nose touched another’s. Below a high hat, an old man loomed over him, looking down with curiosity. He was finely garbed, with genteel features and a snowy beard glinting under the falling sun.

“Did I startle you?” the man said, not unkind.

“Did- did Lord Buddha send you? Who are you, good sir?”

“Oh!” the stranger said, understanding dawning, “no, I merely overheard your speech and was so touched I took it upon myself to answer. I hope you won’t mind, Tang monk.”

This man wasn’t sent by Tathagata? Xuanzang collected himself and clapped his hands together in a bow. Whoever the gentleman was, he couldn’t have been human- this much, the Tang priest was sure.

“And I do apologize for the wait,” the man continued, “I had to run to my companions and ask for a second opinion.”

Companions? There was no one for miles on end save Moonfield Village and Wuzhuang Temple. Xuanzang knew he couldn’t have gone to Moonfield and if not Wuzhuang, then only one being would have companions of equal footing to consult. His eyes widened. First Li Muzha, now-

“Tudigong?” Xuanzang gasped.

“Of Longevity Mountain, at your service.”

Xuanzang kowtowed and gave the earth deity his thanks, dumbfounded by this burst of luck.

“Please, please, Tang monk, you flatter me!” the earth god laughed.

Lifting his head, Xuanzang asked, “Tudigong, can you please tell this holy monk what ails his disciple?”

The god clasped his hands behind his back, nodded, and said, “Yes, but I fear it’s not as simple as you hope.”

“I want to know regardless.”

“The Great Sage was born from stone. He’s not flesh and blood by nature, no matter what form he may take. One can’t simply change their origins.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“As such, he’s- forgive me for saying this- colder and crueler than most, even by demon standards because of that stone center, hardened by centuries of life.”

“Then what’s changed?”

“I’m getting there, Tang monk.” Tudigong glanced at the darkening sky, now a sweeping violet. “The stone cracked. Where there was no place for weakness, now there is. He’s becoming flesh, real flesh.”

“Does- does Wukong know this?”

“He must. I don’t know how familiar you are with the Great Sage’s… escapades. Only one person’s managed to damage his stone nature before: Erlang Shen the Illustrious Sage. He pierced that monkey demon’s pipa bone, but it’s long since sealed.”

The earth god brushed his whiskers. “It closed, it didn’t heal. One can’t recover from a wound like that. Your disciple may not have noticed for the past five hundred years because of that stone body, but the moment he became flesh, the wound likely opened.  Did that happen, Tang monk?”

Xuanzang thought back to the burst of blood from Wukong’s shoulders and nodded. He sat up, brows furrowing in confusion. “This does sound uh, disconcerting. Then, may I ask why this is happening?”

The god smiled, eyes warm. “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Master Sanzang- something melted his heart of stone.”

“What.”

“He’s learned to love.”

“ What .”

Xuanzang shook his head and rephrased that answer: “This is very bad for our journey. As holy men, we need to let go of all desires, including matters of the heart.”

“Keep in mind Sun Wukong’s never been moved so thoroughly. If he could love before, he’s long forgotten. And now, how can he let go if he has nothing to lose? This may be the perfect chance for you to inspire some teachings in your disciple.”

“When you put it that way, it’s not so bad… but Wukong’s been with me for the past two years. Nothing’s been out of the usual for him. Why now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Tudigong said, “has he paid attention to anything new- perhaps the kindness of a child? The goodness of another disciple? Or… no, that might not be it.”

But Xuanzang pressed him for more. “No, please, I want to hear!”

“It’s a silly conjecture though. Master Sanzang, is there anyone your first disciple fancies?”

Xuanzang blinked. And thought. Wukong never showed much interest in anyone they met on their travels. He showed no mercy in the demons he slayed. That left the pilgrims themselves. Bajie did have an unhealthy obsession with pleasing that monkey. Wujing got along with him well enough. Ao Lie certainly held him in high regard. But none of those options made much sense to him. There had only been one person Wukong steadily stayed by on their path west, had treated with anything resembling tenderness, and that person was-

No, Tudigong was right. It was just a silly thought.

“Not that I know of,” the monk said, “then is there any way to resolve this?”

“The Great Sage will have to lose this newfound affection for his nature to revert, or die and become stone himself.”

“Those sound rather harsh…”

“Yes, I can tell it pains you.”

“How?”

Tudigong gestured at his face. “Your eyes, your mouth, your eyebrows, your body,.”

Xuanzang supposed that was evidence enough. As he thought of more questions, for a thousand were brewing in his brain, the earth god said, “I and my companions don’t think it’s a singular cause, this ailment of the Great Sage. It’s likely a combination of different factors.”

“So it’s not just because he can love?”

“Of course not! Even as stone, he had the potential to do so. What of his past, I can’t tell you, but as for the present, this is the first time he may have wanted to change.”

Tudigong again looked to the sky in thought, evening now upon them. “It could have started with something as simple as guilt or empathy, his newfound desire. It’s inspired compassion within him. And now it’s rendered him mortal, entirely by accident.”

“Then, what you’re saying,” Xuanzang said, a silent ache in his own chest, “is that love… is killing him.”

Before the earth god could answer, Xuanzang kowtowed again, giving thanks upon thanks at the deity’s feet, unwilling to let Tudigong see the turmoil written across his face. Because his disciple was dying. And he couldn’t do a thing.

Having bid the earth god a thankful farewell, Xuanzang returned to the sight of a lively campfire. Wujing ladled soup into five clay bowls while the distant shapes of Bajie and Ao Lie grew in approach. The dragon almost met the Tang priest halfway before Wuneng shoved him aside- by accident - and stopped in front of Xuanzang with short breaths.

“Master,” he gasped, “thank the heavens! Eldest brother, he’s awake!”

Ao Lie tugged at the monk’s sleeve and said, “Hurry, Master! Big brother just woke up!”

“Soup’s ready!” Wujing cried.

Whatever else they said, Xuanzang didn’t know, because he found himself deaf to every other word. Wukong was awake and that was the only phrase buzzing through his spinning mind. 

Following Ao Lie’s lead, he stumbled towards the monkey’s blankets. Wukong was sitting up, back resting against a log, and legs under that pile of covers.

He looked up when the Tang priest approached, groggy and weak from sleep. Xuanzang nearly fainted from relief upon seeing him. He dropped by the monkey’s side, eyes scanning his disciple over for signs of new damage, and to his relief, found none. But in the firelight, Wukong appeared as beaten as the night before, face littered with dark bruises and dried cuts, features drawn tight with quiet pain.

“What are you looking at, baldy?” the monkey rasped.

Xuanzang bit his lower lip, raised a hand to strike that demon, and let his palm land gently on Wukong’s brow. The fever had broken once more.

“Bad monkey,” the Tang priest said, “scare me like that again and I’ll really let you have it.”

Wukong went still with surprise, as if a single blink would rip this tenderness away. And ashamed of such weakness, he swatted the monk’s hand away and dropped his gaze elsewhere, momentarily guilted by the look of hurt flashing across Xuanzang’s eyes.

“Boss!” Bajie said, kneeling before the first disciple, a bowl of water in his outstretched hands, “have some water! This is cause for celebration! You have no idea how worried I was!”

Wukong: “Shut up, asshole.”

He took the bowl and lapped it dry, the cold water soothing against his cracked throat. Wiping the dribble from his chin, he arched a brow and asked, “What was in that water? It’s bitter as hell.”

“Danshen roots!” Wujing called, “Master brewed it today!”

“That I picked!” Bajie was quick to add.

Danshen roots? Wukong held back a cry of frustration- since when did the Great Sage Equaling Heaven need mortal herbs? Puti’s warning came back to mind and it took every ounce of self control not to smash that bowl into the earth. While he brooded, Ao Lie wriggled his way past the second disciple and sat, bumping shoulders with their senior brother.

“Big brother, how do you feel?” he asked.

He felt as if he’d been burned with Samadhi fire. For five hundred years. Without respite.

“ Fine ,” Wukong said, “and what are you doing back here?”

“Xiao Bailong’s joining us on our journey west again,” Xuanzang said, taking his spot across the dragon, “you should be very proud of your little brother.”

The monkey stared at the grinning prince, aware of vague memories from the night before- he had trudged down that mountain in everlasting pain, somehow goaded the Master into another beating, and then all had went black. But Ao Lie’s voice had been there too. The dragon had intervened on his behalf, and the more Wukong thought about what may have taken place, the more he felt weighed down by utter humiliation.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say, “Bailong’s been good.”

Then he saw Wujing’s impatient face by the pots and said, “Soup’s ready. Shouldn’t you lot go eat before Friar Sand loses it?”

“His soup’s terrible anyway,” Ao Lie said, beam still apparent.

“You stay put, boss,” Bajie announced, “I’ll get our meals. Master, wait for me!”

As the pig took his first steps towards the third disciple, Wukong said, “Bajie, hold on.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Get Bailong’s too.”

The second disciple sucked in a breath, kept his eye from flinching, and said, calm as he could, “Of course, boss, of course!”

Smug, Ao Lie watched him leave and snuggled closer to the monkey, pale head up to Wukong’s shoulder. For once, the first disciple made no move to push him away, but his eyes remained on Bajie, looking anywhere but at the Tang priest. This, Xuanzang knew.

Chapter Text

Wujing gathered the dirtied bowls into his arms, allowed them a second to wobble, and promptly stacked them by the cooled pot, sure he could reuse those items in the dawn. While he wiped up what he could with a dusty dishrag, Xuanzang stood before Wukong with an impatient tap-tap of his feet, basket in hand.

“Monkey, are you going to obey me or not?” the monk asked, Ao Lie and Bajie silent as they waited for Wukong’s no doubt unfavorable answer.

And again, the monkey stared up with those weary eyes, not a word leaving his lips. If he was hoping this would dissuade the Tang priest, then he would be disappointed. Xuanzang shook his head, sighed, and said, “Bajie, Xiao Bailong, flip him over.”

Before Wukong could protest, the other two were upon him, pulling him up by the arms, the first disciple still too weak to resist. And as the monk expected, familiar spots of red were imprinted upon the log Wukong had leaned on throughout the night.

“Let go or I’ll bash your heads in!” Wukong barked, shoving both disciples to the side, himself tumbling over Xuanzang’s feet.

“No you’re not bashing anyone’s head in,” the Master said, “be a good disciple and sit still.”

“Or what, you’ll use your Sodding Palm!?”

“I was going to sing, but that’s not a bad idea, is it!?”

“Ugh.”

Reluctant, Wukong crawled onto his elbows and flipped himself up, legs crossed and arms still, holding back a hiss of pain. Xuanzang circled behind him, set the basket down, and bent, eyeing the fresh blood staining the pipa dressings, layer over layer of darkening red.

“Does it hurt?” the monk asked.

“ No .”

Bajie: “I knew you were a tough guy, boss!”

Xuanzang silenced him with a glare and said, “Wuneng, Xiao Bailong, if you two have the time to sit around doing nothing, then go help Wujing. I’m not putting on some play here!”

As the pair ran off, the Tang priest turned back to Wukong, and with restless fingers, peeled away the topmost bandages.

“Wukong,” he said, soft, “this might hurt.”

“You talk too much, baldy. Get on with it.”

Unable to keep his own wincing at bay, Xuanzang reached for a needle and took to plucking the broken stitches, one by one. He did his best to soak up the blood with a wad of bundled cloth and gulped, Wukong’s skin tight and sweaty against the sure pain. His hands slick with red again, Xuanzang cleaned them along his lap and rose, numbly stepping towards the campfire while Wukong waited.

The monk gone to do who knows what, Wukong snatched a rock from the nearby grass, grit his teeth, and stuffed it in his mouth to keep back a gathering cry. Then- crunch!- he bit down when an unexpected heat slammed into his back, quite sure he would have screamed to the heavens otherwise. Behind, Xuanzang removed the handle, a piece of heated silver tied to its end, that left wound smoking from cauterization.

Fuck you! The monkey thought, incapable of more thought as Xuanzang pressed the heated piece to his right blade. Wukong chomped on that rock until it became powder in his mouth.

Finished, Xuanzang jammed the handle into the earth, silver charring dirt, and returned to his basket. Stuffing more stones past teeth, Wukong waited in sweat while the monk bandaged him over, mindful of every other stitch on that damaged form.

“Are you bleeding anywhere else?” Xuanzang asked, prodding the monkey’s waist, “your shoulder alright?”

Wukong shoved his hand away, instinctively pressing a palm over his bound side. “No, I’m fine. Go meditate or whatever.”

Xuanzang: “I’m trying me best to keep you alive and that’s how you speak to your Master?”

Wukong: “Tsk! Nobody asked you to.”

The Tang priest raised a finger, opened his mouth to reply, and shut it in anger. He let out a breath and sighed. “You know what, you’re right- I’m going to go meditate. When you’re done sulking, you should bathe- you stink, stinky monkey.”*

Wukong grabbed another rock as the monk’s backside disappeared into the woods. Cursing himself, he broke it in half. He should have been elated by the Master’s care, but he knew Xuanzang had done it out of obligation and no more. And now he was here, a useless monkey with a useless tongue, not even good for conversation. If Tang Sanzang wasn’t such an infuriatingly holy man, he should have left the disciple for dead. He was a fool to have hoped the monk would ever see him as more than a murderer, and twice damned for being unable to purge that thought. And thrice as dumb for almost being convinced otherwise tonight.

He wanted to crawl back to his place by the log, but he’d sooner burn in hell than let the other disciples see him do such a thing. So he stood, blinked back spots of black, and limped towards that pile of blankets. He half collapsed onto his butt and felt himself pass out.

When his vision cleared a good hour or so later, he saw Bajie leaning beside him, propped on an elbow and cheek in one hand. The pig smiled, saccharine, white face pink in the firelight.

“You looked so peaceful in your sleep, boss.”

“Asshole,” Wukong said, sitting up, “quit looking.”

“Of course, boss, of course!” the second disciple laughed.

Wukong rubbed the back of his head, convinced the short nap had helped alleviate the pain to some extent. The pipa wounds ached but were a far cry from burning and the rest of him was too numb to care. Then, to his frustration, he wondered if it was the effect of the red sage roots.

“Where’s Wujing and the dragon?” he asked.

“Gone for a walk,” Bajie said, admiring the stars with dreamy eyes, “not together, of course. But not me- I’d never leave your side.”

The monkey scoffed, gaze tilting upwards to gander the night sky when the stars were abruptly blocked by an ogre of a demon- Wujing. The fish dropped two balls of pink at Wukong’s feet: rabbits, dead, stiff, and bloodied at the neck.

“The fuck is this?” Wukong said, glaring up at Friar Sand.

Wujing: “You lost a lot of blood, didn’t you? It’s red meat! Eat it!”

“So baldy can blame me for this!? No way, asshole- take them away!”

“Take them where!? I got them for you !”

Bajie: “You heard the boss! Get them out of here!”

Wujing: “Why should I!? They’re for him and he’s eating them!”

Ao Lie: “You stole my idea!”

Three pairs of eyes turned towards the returning prince, Ao Lie glaring as he stabbed an accusing finger in Wujing’s direction, a dead hare under his arm.

“Are you fucking with me!?” Wukong said.

“Your idea!?” Wujing snapped, “since when!?”

Ao Lie: “Since I thought of it!”

The dragon knelt by Wukong and held up the hare. “Big brother, hurry and eat it before Master comes back!”

Wujing shoved him out of the way and all pushed the corpses into Wukong’s face. “Boss, eat these! They’re stronger and healthier!”

“No they’re not!” Ao Lie said.

Wukong knocked the rabbits back into Wujing’s hands, hopped up with a frustrated grunt, and forced his way past Bajie and Ao Lie.

“Taking a bath,” he growled, “You lot stay here.”

“But what do we do boss!?” Bajie cried, Wujing and Ao Lie arguing as they clutched their game.

Wukong: “I don’t know, cook those rabbits or something!”

Moonlight bled through water as the creek took its course, a canopy of stars and leaves hanging above. Xuanzang paced along the stone bank, the chirping of evening cicadas strangely calming to his ears. Meditation had given him chance to reflect, and though no clear answer stood in sight, he was sure it did his soul good. All he knew was that such worries would fix nothing so he let the air clear his head and the moon wash his heart, for these were the natures he cherished most.

He found Wukong lying by the bank, a twig in his mouth, and legs soaked in rippling water. The monkey’s eyes were glued on the sky, absently chewing that twig as the branches swayed over and atop.

Xuanzang: “What are you doing here?”

Wukong: “You said I stunk. I’m bathing.”

The monk sat by him, lap brushing Wukong’s hair. The monkey didn’t move.

“I don’t see much bathing here, bad monkey.”

Wukong shut his eyes, sighed, and said, with a twinge of shame, “I can’t this way, Master… it hurts.”

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t hurt,” Xuanzang said honestly, “you don’t have to hide anything from your Master. I care about all of you deeply, but I may not say it often because I’m a very low key individual.”

Behind those closed lids, the monkey rolled his eyes.

“Wukong,” the monk said quietly, “I never got to say it. About the Gingsenfruit tree, I’m sorry. Master shouldn’t have doubted you, shouldn’t have-”

Wukong: “Don’t be. I deserved it.”

The first disciple opened his eyes, sat up, and sank farther into the creek, shuddering in pain as the water swirled past. “I deserved all of it.”

Again, Xuanzang felt that guilty twinge in his own chest, some unwelcome ache at hearing his disciple say such words. Wukong suffered and hid and suffered still more, and this, the Tang priest could not allow. He was the teacher and the teacher taught.

“Let me help you,” the monk said, shedding his beads and pulling away those outer robes.

Wukong: “Baldy, what are you-”

Half naked, Xuanzang dipped his toes in the water and slid all the way in. Wet, he surfaced, grinned, and said, “Relax, I’m not about to pull shenanigans with you- you should be ashamed of such dirty thoughts!”

“You’re really something, Master,” the monkey muttered.

He repositioned that twig and rested his skull against the bank, Xuanzang following suit, both surrounded by the hooting of owls and singing cicadas. Then the monk lifted a foot and nudged Wukong.

“Look,” he ordered.

“Master, that’s disgusting.”

It was his left foot, a bumpy stump in place of where the little toe should stand.* Xuanzang flexed the four remaining digits and said, “They used to call me Jiang Liuer, child of the river current. Master found me in a basket floating down…”

Wukong looked to him, then, unsure what the monk was planning to say. A touch of pink kissed Xuanzang’s cheeks when he next spoke.

“This might be hard to believe, but I wasn’t always this wise and virtuous and low key.”

“ No, you don’t say.”

“I learned to be a great holy man like everyone else… but before, I was nobody. And you better keep this a secret, Wukong, I’ve never told anyone this, not even Master or Lord Buddha.”

The monkey bit down on his twig, a strange curiosity swelling within. And honest, he answered, “Alright.”

Xuanzang: “I always wished I could be someone important. I’d imagine I was someone great, but I was just Jiang Liuer, some poor orphan. So I made up a story… my father was an official and my mother was a noble lady.”

He pointed at the missing toe. “Pirates killed my father and abducted my mother. She set me free and bit off my toe as a way to mark me hers… even though Master said my toe was eaten by a fish.”

Wukong: “Was it?”

“I don’t know.” Sheepish, Xuanzang laughed,  his leg lowered. “So I made another story to counter Master’s. I’d tell myself my father once saved a golden fish from the market, but that fish was actually a dragon.”

“Dragons are useless, baldy.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Anyway, that dragon came to my father’s rescue. Then by chance, I’d meet my mother’s family, and all of us- me, my grandfather, the dragon king- we’d all revive my father and save my mother. Then father, mother, and I would reunite. We’d live happily ever after.”

Xuanzang sunk down to his chin, eyes drifting ahead. “But that never happened. I became Chen Xuanzang, just another priest… until now, and I know it’s vain but I like being the Great Xuanzang- I want the credit for taking all of us west, for getting the scriptures.”

That was the most about himself the Tang priest had ever shared with him, and Wukong was at a loss for response. He sucked on the twig, the bump-bumping of his heart obnoxiously loud in his chest, as if caught between some bridge of fear and delight. The Master must have expected this to resonate with him somehow, expected him to understand. And perhaps he did.

He focused on the moon instead, and said, to his regret, “Stone monkey--Siho… they used to call me that. But I didn’t have any silly stories to go with it- didn’t see the point.”

Because when all was said and done, the Great Sage Equaling Heaven had always been a freak of a demon and nothing more.

“Wukong,” the monk said, “do you know the story of Hanuman?”*

“Now what are you blabbing about, baldy?”

“It comes from a faith in the land of the western paradise.”

Xuanzang waited for some sarcastic quip, but Wukong seemed willing to listen, and so, the Tang priest spoke on.

“There’s a god- Lord Shiva- the destroyer and transformer, their protector of the universe. And Hanuman was his avatar. He was born from the air and sky. His father was the god of wind and his mother, a royal feitian.*”

Wukong turned towards him then, and the Tang priest met his gaze.

“When he was a child, Hanuman ate the sun.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Keep your comments for the end. Great, now I’ve lost track. Where was I?”

“He ate the… sun?”

“Right, the rising sun was red and Hanuman mistook it for a fruit. Then he was struck down. And seeing how much his father was suffering, and how much suffering he was delivering, the god of life revived Hanuman. But he had a deformed jaw since.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Comments at the end!” Xuanzang waded a few steps in the water and pulled Wukong towards him. “I’ll help wash your back, it looks terrible-”

“The story…”

“Oh, now you’re interested?”

“ Baldy …”

Sporting a smug smile, Xuanzang gently rubbed water over the monkey’s backside and said, “Lord Hanuman grew to have many miraculous powers. He could be large and small at will, take the form of whatever he pleased, harness great strength, and overcome anything in his way. Most importantly, he was loyal and kind.”

“Was he immortal?”

“What do you think? Of course he was! Do I not teach you to infer?”

Wukong resisted the urge to splash a pile of water in the Master’s face. Instead, he rolled those whites and waited for the monk to continue, Xuanzang massaging the water into his backside with steady strength. The priest grabbed his arm next and began shifting water over the bandaged limb.

“One day Hanuman saw a man. He was Prince Rama, but he wasn’t some ordinary mortal. He was the incarnation of Lord Vishnu. Now, Vishnu is the deity who preserves and protects from all evil in this world. Rama’s wife was Sita. She was the incarnation of Lakshmi, great goddess of prosperity and sense, and when she was-”

Wukong: “I thought this was Hanuman’s story?”

“It’s also Rama’s,” Xuanzang said, letting go of Wukong’s arm, “technically, it was always his. Just quit interrupting. As I was saying, Sita was abducted by demon king Ravana, who Vishnu was destined to kill.”

Wukong sniffed himself, the scent of blood and sweat successfully swept away by the creek’s fresh pools.

Xuanzang: “Lord Vishnu was once deeply devoted to Lord Shiva. But one day, when he made to offer Shiva one thousand lotus flowers, he lost one. When he realized Shiva hid the last flower to test him, do you know what he did?”

“No, Master,” Wukong said with exaggerated interest, “what did he do?”

“He took his own eye and made it the thousandth offering! And this made Lord Shiva so happy he promised his loyalty in their next life- then he was born Hanuman and Lord Vishnu born Rama.”

“But-”

“Comments at the end! And so, Hanuman observed Prince Rama. He was awed by the prince’s virtues. He saw his pure love for Sita and the strength of his heart. Then Hanuman chose to serve Rama and help him rescue his beloved from the demon Ravana. Of course, there were many trials for everyone ahead, but none that didn’t end in triumph-”

“Isn’t your mouth tired?”

“Do you want to hear more or not?”

“Go on, baldy,” Wukong sighed.

Xuanzang pointed at the shape of Longevity Mountain as Wukong pushed water over his own face. “When Rama and Ravana went to war, the prince’s brother was injured. His only hope was a herb in the Himalayas- which, by the way, we’ll have to cross on our journey- but Hanuman couldn’t find the right herb.”

Then the monk raised both arms, and said with flare, “Hanuman knew what had to be done. He lifted that mountain straight off the ground and carried it from the Himalayas, all the way across the lands of the west. That was how he saved the man’s life.”

Xuanzang beckoned Wukong over and splashed his hair with water, running his fingers through those tangles until the crusted blood fell out.

Xuanzang: “So it’s of little wonder that Hanuman had Rama’s devotion in turn. Because Rama also saw how pure and true this servant was, and so did all of Hanuman’s devotees.”

Wukong said nothing as the monk ran the water over his head once more, the Tang priest still caught up in the excitement of his own story. It had been a tale he learned from a traveler in adolescence, one who claimed to have traded along the silk road. But he hadn’t had a reason to share it for a long time, and now, the irony was not lost.

“Now you can comment,” he said, giving Wukong a chance to shake that head dry.

“Master,” the demon replied, only one comment left, “you told me all this because?”

Xuanzang flashed a crooked smile. “Lord Hanuman is a monkey.”

“Master’s back!” Ao Lie cried, jumping to his feet and swirling around to warn his senior brothers.

Bajie gasped and rushed to stand in front of the flames while Wujing struggled to hide their roasted rabbits, charred meat still pierced by a spit over the campfire. He grabbed all three spits and hid them behind his back, sitting as still as could be. Ao Lie ran to the pig’s side and both offered their most-least sincere grins at the Tang priest’s appearance.

Nose wrinkling, Xuanzang approached, Wukong’s right arm pulled over his shoulder as the monkey limped in pace beside him.

“What’s that… smell?” the monk asked.

“Don’t know,” Wukong said, a bit too quickly.

When they reunited with the other disciples, the monkey wasted no time in leaving Xuanzang and joining his brothers in hiding whatever it was they wanted away from view. Suspicious, Xuanzang walked up to Ao Lie and patted the dragon’s head.

“Xiao Bailong, it’s in poor form to lie to your Master. What’s going on here?”

“Nothing’s happening!”

“That’s right!” Bajie said, “we’re just enjoying the night view is all!”

To the monk’s knowledge, there was no great amount of kinship between the second and fourth disciple, and this fact alone was enough to tell him they were keeping secrets from him. He glanced sideways at Bajie before circling around and seeing Wujing’s stiff stand.

Xuanzang: “I smelled meat. Wujing, show me your hands.”

Wukong: “What meat? I don’t see any meat, do you, Bajie?”

Bajie: “Nope! Not at all!”

Ao Lie gulped and approached Xuanzang, unsure if this was a great enough crime to risk the Sodding Palm’s wrath. He cleared his throat and said, “Master… the truth is… this is all third brother’s fault! It was his idea!”

Wujing: “You little shit! You said it was your idea!”

The fish prepared to strike Ao Lie, accidentally revealing the spits in his hands. Upon seeing the roasted meat, Xuanzang’s eyes widened as the rest went still. But the Master only sighed and said, “Nothing in this world is permanent. When I see that meat, my heart doesn’t see that meat, so it’s as if we never ate it.”*

He sat by the fire, looked at the others, and said, “My heart doesn’t see that meat right now, but give it an hour and it probably will. So I suggest you delinquents hurry up and eat it before your hearts start seeing that meat.”

Bajie: “The Master’s right! This meat doesn’t exist in our hearts!”

With that, he grabbed a spit from Wujing and offered it to Wukong. And awkwardly, the monkey took the first bite. The pig and fish followed suit, each demon overjoyed at the taste of flesh after so long without. Ao Lie watched his brothers eat, the demon trio munching loud and spraying grease on skin.

Xuanzang said nothing as he prayed for those carcasses, back turned to his disciples. Swallowing the roughest cut of rabbit, Wujing watched the Master ponder, still shocked by how lenient he’d been. But he knew why- Xuanzang’s thoughts had been the same as himself when he went for those rabbits. He wanted the first disciple’s blood replenished, and the others had simply been lucky enough to be in sight. This is favoritism , he thought.

“Bailong,” Wukong said, mouth stuffed with meat, “you caught one too, didn’t you?”

The monkey held up what remained of his own spit, half the roast still in tact.

“But I did it for you-”

“Little brother, just take it. Can’t eat much now anyway.”

Wukong shoved the spit into Ao Lie’s hands and moved to sit by Xuanzang’s side. Wordless, the monk handed him that golden circlet and Wukong pinched it over his head once more. And only a moment later did the prince realize what he’d been called. Little brother . Sun Wukong had finally called him little brother , and too excited to think more, Ao Lie bit into that cooked meat. It tasted terrible.

While the disciples spat out rabbit bones and finished the last of their meat, Xuanzang was privy to a rustling in the bushes behind. He tapped Wukong on the shoulder and both turned to see the new figure emerge with mild surprise.

“Master Sanzang, I am glad to have found you.”

Qingfeng’s familiar face came into view as the Immortal Zhenyuan’s trusted servant took his first steps into the pilgrims’ camp, silver ribbons orange under fire. He kowtowed, oblivious to the group’s harsh stares, and tilted that haughty nose at the heavens.

“What do you want?” Wujing growled.

“Is something the matter?” Xuanzang asked, sudden dread knotting his stomach.

“My Master intends to hold a banquet in honor of his new Ginsengfruit tree in five days’ time, and it would please him greatly if you and your disciples would attend, venerable elder.”

Qingfeng glanced at Wukong, and every fiber of his being reluctant, kowtowed before the monkey. “Elder Sun, it is my Master’s greatest wish that you at least attend.”

Wukong: “Tell him we’re busy. Can’t go.”

“I cannot take no for an answer.”

Xuanzang: “But we really must be on our way, Qingfeng. Tell the patriarch we’re most grateful for the invitation but in five days’ time, we have to be on the road again.”

Qingfeng prepared to speak, but Bajie cut him off.

“Don’t brag with us,” the pig said, “there’s one of you and five of us. And your Master’s not around to protect you.”

The servant’s eyes hardened but he clenched his fists and bowed once more. “I understand. Master Sanzang, do consider the offer and I shall return to Wuzhuang. However-”

He looked at each pilgrim and said, “You will find this a most regretful decision.” And he stared Xuanzang straight in the eye. “Especially you, Master Sanzang.”

Why me!? The Tang priest clapped his hands, bowed, and said, as polite as he could, “I’m terribly sorry, but we really need to be on our way. Please let your Master know how grateful we are.”

“Rest assured that I will,” Qingfeng answered, his assurance enunciated like a threat.

Then, to the jeers of those demons, the servant turned and walked back the way he came. The four disciples pointed behind him and laughed, beside themselves with mockery, until finally, the monk snapped and said, “Quiet or I’ll use my Buddha’s Sodding Palm!”

As the others lowered their snickers, Xuanzang stared at the clouds, the moon’s shadow taking on a threatening cast as it loomed overhead.

Chapter Text

Her eyes traced earth as the clouds covered black. Under night, she walked on, silent, near drifting, along that trail of dried blood. She stooped, long nails raking soil, and tasted- it had been at least two, at most four, nights since that demon bled fresh. She grinned.

Fair , then, life was fair . But she was not here to judge.

She licked her fingers clean, the macaque’s blood bitter on her tongue, and followed that path. The Tang priest’s scent was ever so near.

“We’re running a little low on supplies,” Bajie reported, “Master, do you think we should stop by Moonfield while we still can?”

Atop Ao Lie’s white pony, Xuanzang furrowed his brow and said, “I don’t think we’re welcomed there, if our last visit was anything to go by…”

Aside from the innkeeper’s wife, the village itself did not seem the most hospitable of places, and the last thing the pilgrims needed was getting embroiled in yet another conflict. But the monk did see his second disciple’s concern- the trip to Moonfield would be an hour at most, perhaps less, and any farther would lengthen that time to a day. They’d already lost one day of travel to Wuzhuang and another three to Wukong’s injuries, and there was no choice but to start moving on the fourth, lest any more messengers from Zhenyuanzi return.

“What’s missing?” Wujing asked, “got enough rice for congee.”

Bajie: “Basic necessities ring a bell? Blankets for the Master, cough medicine in case he catches a chill again, and-”

The pig lowered his voice, leaning on Wujing’s shoulder as he walked in step by the third disciple. “-bandages. We’ve used up a lot these… past few days.”

Oblivious to the comments of his fellow disciples, Wukong led Ao Lie around a crooked tree, rein gripped in his right hand as his feet fought to overcome an uneven limp. The cudgel stepped along in his left.

“Master,” the monkey said, “maybe the idiot’s right. No telling how long until the next town.”

“You were the one whining about getting a move on,” Xuanzang quipped.

Wukong released a snort, scratched behind a ear, and said, “It’s not that far. Might need some things- you’re human, you’ll need more than the rest of us. And-”

He tapped the visible bandages around his chest, the rest covered by that cloak and the Master’s old shirt under. “You wasted all these on me. You’ll need ‘em more, baldy.”

Xuanzang mulled over that thought as the morning wind whistled about the woods. He looked over his shoulder, Longevity Mountain standing in the distance behind, and the fields of that village just over yonder. His disciples did have his best interests in mind, it seemed. Medical supplies, they did need, and though he knew their caution lay with the Master, Xuanzang couldn’t help but think Wukong would need them more.

“Fine,” the Tang priest said, “Bajie, Wujing! Let’s make one more detour!”

Ao Lie made a noise halfway between a huff and a whinny, hooves spinning as he changed direction, leaves scattering down from above. Xuanzang straightened his hat, waved the leaves off his shoulders, and watched Wukong shake the green from his head, much like the baby macaques he’d seen in childhood. And smiling, the monk reached down, plucking out a leaf wedged in that messy hair.

“Aren’t you the Great Sage Equaling heaven?” Xuanzang teased, “don’t tell me you can’t even get a leaf out.”

“What leaf?”

And smirking, Wukong gestured at the leaf in Xuanzang’s hand with a slight tip of the chin. A banana was left in the monk’s grip, half peeled and ripe-yellow. Xuanzang laughed, exasperated, warm, and for a moment, Wukong let himself bask in the glow of that tender chuckle.

Then the monk’s smile fell, replaced with tight-lipped surprise as his shoulders stiffened. When the first disciple eyed him in confusion, Xuanzang said, “Wukong, is there someone… behind me?”

The monkey looked past him, sensing nothing for miles on end, shrugged, and said, “No... You alright, baldy?”

Xuanzang relaxed and shook his head. “Just tired. I felt like I was being watched.”

“Who’s watching us?!” Wujing called from behind the pony, wagon shaking as he crossed a fallen log.

“Is it a man or a woman?” Bajie asked in addition.

Xuanzang: “No… it’s nothing.”

Wukong bounced the staff over his shoulder and looked again to the woods behind, a haughty smirk on his lips. “Whatever it is, Master, don’t let it get to you. They’ll have to get past old Sun first before they touch your bald head. Isn’t that right, Bailong?”

The prince huffed in agreement. But Xuanzang said nothing, heart dropping like lead as he forced a grateful smile across his face, for what the first disciple said was exactly what he feared.

Moonfield Village was less pleasant to look upon in the daylight, scrunched buildings scratched with dust and age between high fields, each house the color of mud and hay. But it was rife with noise, Moonfield’s people bustling through the street as they went about their day, children skipping stones and parents toiling away into noon. The villagers were so preoccupied with each other that the Tang priest and his disciples attracted little a curious eye.

“Alms, alms,” Bajie pleaded, face a charming gent’s, long hair down to the sashed waist, “for holy men on our way west.”

He held up a begging bowl, dramatically batting those lashes at anyone who so much as looked his way. A child took his first steps towards the second disciple and was immediately pulled away by the mother while Bajie called after: “Can anyone spare a beautiful coin?”

The pig eyed his empty bowl, glanced downwards, and said, “Hey, you- I know why nobody’s coming near us! What’s up with that mean face?”

Stooping by Bajie’s knee and head still up to Wuneng’s chest, Friar Sand glared up. “What’s wrong with my face? Maybe you’re just bad at this!”

“Please! I’ve been doing nothing but turning up my charm. Look at this face! Look at it! And look at you, sitting there, all blue and sour. No wonder the ladies won’t come near us.”

Wujing stood up with a growl, yanked the bowl from Bajie’s hands, and pulled the nearest passerby up by the scruff of his robes.

“Hey you! Spare some alms!” the fish said.

The villager took one look at him and screamed. Bajie popped up beside him, applied his handsome charm, and said, “Please spare some alms.”

The man screamed louder.

And upon hearing that scream, the Tang priest was quick to charge out of the apothecary’s shop, fresh purchases still cradled in both arms, Wukong and Ao Lie right behind. Xuanzang shoved his way past several onlookers with muttered pardons and stopped to see Wujing holding up two men, one in each fist, as Bajie busied himself with keeping an angry spade-wielder at bay.

“Wujing!” Xuanzang cried, “let them go now!”

Bajie: “Oh, now you’ve done it! You’ve gone and upset Master!”

“Let me go, please!” the man in Wujing’s left hand said, wrinkled eyes wide in his gaunt-scared face.

“You’re under arrest for disrupting the peace!” the other man said, this one younger, bearded, and in what appeared to be some sort of officer’s uniform.

“Demon!” the spade-holder shouted, “this is a demon come to attack!”

Xuanzang: “No! No! There are no demons here. This holy monk is Xuanzang of Tang and these are my disciples, reformed disciples. Wujing, let go now!”

“Monk?” the officer said, “what kind of monk takes in demons?”

“He’s got to be a demon himself!” the spade's owner said, turning that weapon on Xuanzang.

“Big brother,” Ao Lie whispered as he watched the villagers back their Master into speechlessness, “should we do something?”

Wukong: “Nah, this is funny.”

“I’m not a demon!” Xuanzang said in the middle of that crowd, clutching his purchases like a shield, “but my disciple here is volatile! We’ll accept responsibility- I only ask not to be slandered!”

“That’s what a demon would say!” a woman cried.

“That’s right!” the crowd went on, “demon! Demon!”

“Is this the face of a demon!?” Bajie challenged, touting his gorgeous head for all to see.

“Yes,” Wujing said from the side.

Bajie: “Who asked you!?”

Wujing: “You did!”

“Alright,” Wukong said to the dragon, “now the joke’s getting old. Come on.”

The man with the spade moved to strike Xuanzang and before Ao Lie could follow, the monkey disappeared. When the prince next saw him, he’d arrived in the middle of that commotion, left elbow balanced on the tip of his staff, spine arched as one hand blocked the spade from touching their Master’s head.

Wukong: “Asshole, wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He lifted the spade up, its owner rising along, and tossed both into the crowd before more could be said. Knocked down like pins, the villagers scrambled to their feet, eyes large and the word “demon” stronger than ever on their stammering lips.

“Took you long enough,” the monk hissed at his back, “now look at this mess we’ve made.”

“Just use your charm on them, Master,” Wukong said with a rough chuckle, “works every time, eh?”

Wujing dropped his hostages then, both men rolling down the street as the fish and pig took their places by the first disciple, each weapon raised, Xuanzang shielded behind their backs.

“Just once, just once,” Xuanzang said, “can you hooligans stay out of trouble? Just once !”

Wukong: “Don’t worry, baldy. I’ll give them a good whacking for you later.”

Xuanzang: “You better!”

Bajie: “Oh... no, I’m so scared, big brother…”

“You want a fight!” Wujing called to the crowd, “then come on!”

“Hey, shush it, asshole!” the monkey said.

Xuanzang squeezed between Wukong and Bajie, stuck his head out, and said, impassioned, “People of Moonfield! We may have made a bad impression, but please, find it in your hearts to see us for what we are- we’re nothing more than monks on our way to the western paradise! Not demons-”

“So you admit it- you’re a demon!” the officer said.

Xuanzang: “What? No!”

And again, the onlookers took to chanting, Ao Lie standing awkwardly at the rear, unsure what the pilgrims would do, for it seemed that this was not such a rare occurrence for their band. Then another voice spoke, low and scratchy.

“This priest is no demon.”

Back hunched, an old woman came forward, face sagged with wrinkles below a white top knot. The villagers parted, quieting as they made way for her small, slow steps. Upon seeing her aged countenance, recognition dawned in Xuanzang’s eyes.

“You’re-” the Tang priest said.

“We met in the Crescent Tiger’s Inn, yes,” the woman said, “I warned you not to bring your demons here, venerable elder.”

She turned to the man still clinging to his spade. “Drop that shovel. It’s sad just sitting there- ah, where was I… uh, yes. Everyone, let’s agree to end this fighting here. These strangers mean you no harm.”

“But Chieftess,” the officer said, kowtowing at her feet while the others stared in trepidation, “they came here and started an incident .”

“Please don’t interrupt me, officer Yi,” she said, “you know how hard it is for this old lady… where was I? Everyone, let’s agree to end this fighting here. These strangers mean you no harm.”

“Chieftess?” Xuanzang mouthed, exchanging confused glances with his disciples.

“Let’s get this street cleaned up. And you, venerable elder, we should go inside, though I’m not sure if my son would like that.”

Whilst the villagers accepted their orders with no small amount of grumbling, Ao Lie used the opportunity to blend into the crowd and place himself back by the Master’s side, standing beside Wukong as if he’d never fallen behind. And with no other recourse, the pilgrims lowered their weapons and followed the chieftess away, the Tang priest at the front, and Moonfield’s people glaring holes into each of their backs.

Chieftess Liang’s son was a burly man some time past his prime, whose head came up to Xuanzang’s chest, and what he lacked in height, made up in muscle and girth. As his mother prepared a hospitable pot of tea, Liang Guo sat across from the Tang priest, thick black brows slanted in a piercing glare. In the backroom of the CRESCENT TIGER’S INN, Xuanzang and his pupils occupied five stools, awkwardly meeting the younger Liang’s gaze in polite silence.

“This is a pleasant establishment,” the monk said.

Liang Guo: “I know.”

The son’s gaze flicked towards Bajie, again in his masked visage. “Demon, don’t hide your face.”

“This is my face,” the second disciple said, leaning forward to allow Liang Guo a better look at that glossy skin, “one of my favorites, in fact.”

“Hmph!” Liang Guo wagged a finger at each disciple and said, or rather, threatened, “All of you demons are cowards hiding behind human flesh! Show me your true forms!”

Wukong cackled, crisp and nasty. “That’d be a terrible idea.”

Xuanzang nudged him, and eyes on the chieftess’ son, said, “Forgive us, Master Liang, but it’d be best for my disciples to stay the way they are now- some of their true shapes can get rather… big.”

And dirty . But that, the monk kept to himself.

Fortunately, Chieftess Liang returned by then, whistling to herself as she poured her guests tea.

“Be nice to them, little Guo,” she said, taking a seat by her son when all was done, “now, venerable elder, let’s get you taken care of.”

“Thank you, bodhisattva. But I’m still rather confused as to your identity.”

“Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. I’ve been the chief of this village for sixty years and counting, and young Guo here will take over when I’m done… his dear uncle owned this inn and the poor man died without an heir, so Liang Guo took over.”

She blew at her tea and sipped. “It’s not too safe to be out at night here in Moonfield so I help young Guo out in the evenings… did you think I was just some grandmother?”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant-”

“It’s quite alright, venerable elder, you’re not the first outsider to think so. Now where was I?”

Liang Guo: “Getting rid of this lot.”

“That’s right! Young monk, I have a plan for you- we’ll simply reintroduce you and your disciples to the people later and you can send some of your men to help in the fields.”

Xuanzang: “That sounds agreeable.”

Disdain colored Ao Lie’s face, but he quickly flushed back his retort with tea, for fear that he would speak out of turn. The mere idea of a prince doing laborer’s work turned his stomach. Likewise, Bajie was not looking forward to ruining his manicured hands.

“And if young Guo agrees,” the chieftess said, turning to her son, “then you can stay the night. Nobody should wander out this week.”

“And why is that?” Xuanzang asked, “we had little trouble moving about a few days prior.”

“What holy man’s this dense?” Liang Guo said, “it’s the third night of the blood moon cycle. The Immortal Zhenyuan’s left his mountain for the earth gods’ gathering, and the only thing between us and those woodland devils are our fields.”

Xuanzang thought over those words, some tingling of familiarity broiling in his brain. Qingfeng had delivered his message two days prior and the moon hadn’t been seen since. The date of Zhenyuanzi’s banquet . And neither of his servants had appeared again.

“This gathering,” Xuanzang started, his disciples looking at him as if the same question sat on their tongues, “does it last for five days?”

“See? The venerable elder’s not ignorant,” the chieftess said, “yes, five days. We call it the devil’s forest, those woods beyond Longevity Mountain- without the patriarch’s presence, they’ve free reign. Can’t count the number of villagers we lost to that forest.”

“Then how are you still alive?” Wukong asked, “they should’ve eaten all of you by now.”

“Fire,” was the old woman’s reply, “we light bonfires in the fields at night and let it burn ‘til dawn.”

“And if not for my mother,” Liang Guo added, “the five of you would’ve been tied up and burnt tonight.”

At that, the three demons burst out laughing, only to be silenced by Xuanzang’s angry “shh!”

Thanks to the mercy of Chieftess Liang, Xuanzang and his disciples were allowed a second chance at appeasing her villagers, though it seemed a wasted chance nonetheless. At the old lady’s beckoning, Xuanzang cleared his throat and straightened his back under the archway of the CRESCENT TIGER’S INN, nearly all of Moonfield’s residents gathered around.

“I do sincerely apologize for the trouble we’ve caused in your humble home,” he said, “this monk is Tang Sanzang, sent west to retrieve Lord Buddha’s holy scriptures with my faithful disciples. We’re a band of holy exorcists and it was never our intention to disturb you. I will now introduce my disciples-”

The disciples stayed rooted behind him. Xuanzang coughed and said again, “I will now introduce my disciples who will obediently step forward .”

Slowly, Wukong came to the front, head downcast as he stood by the monk, flashing murder at all who tried to meet his gaze. Xuanzang elbowed him and muttered, “Well? Say something, we rehearsed this.”

“Hello,” the monkey drawled, rolling out those scripted words with all the emotion of a marionette, “I’m the Great Xuanzang’s first disciple, the Great Sage Equaling Heaven, Sun Wukong. I’m ever pleased to meet you.”

“Aren’t you the guy who tried invading heaven?” someone in the crowd asked.

“Yeah! You’re that monkey thing!” another added.

Wukong’s eye twitched, and sensing the demon’s boiling anger, Xuanzang quickly squeezed his arm to quell that rage and said, “Wuneng, you’re up!”

Bajie took the spotlight next, unfolding his fan with dramatic flare, and with the flamboyance of an entire acting troupe, cried, “Hello, people of Moonfield! I am Tang Sanzang’s second disciple, heavenly Marshal Tianpeng, Zhu Bajie. I’m reformed from my sinful ways and now I stand before you as your humble servant. How blessed I am to meet you!”

Hand still on Wukong’s arm, Xuanzang gestured for Wujing before leaning beside Bajie and whispering, “What was that? You went off script.”

The mass of villagers backed away out of instinct when Wujing stepped up, the fish easily towering over everyone there.

“Hello, I’m Sha Wujing,” the third disciple growled, his greeting rumbling out like a violent warning, “I’m the third disciple, General Juanlian and I apologize for the trouble. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Ao Lie was the last to line up by his senior brothers, head held high as he addressed the villagers gathered before them. “Hello! I am the fourth disciple, Prince Ao Lie, third heir of the western sea! I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Never heard of you!” a voice said, much to Ao Lie’s indignation but he had no time to insult the man back.

When the Tang priest forced out a grin, all five pilgrims looked straight at the crowd once more, clapped their hands together, and bowed. Chieftess Liang applauded, her enthusiastic support the only noise echoing through that group of onlookers.

“There!” the chieftess said, “now you all know our priest means well. They’ll even help in the fields, isn’t that right?”

I never agreed to this , Ao Lie thought, but Xuanzang had already nodded. Then, save for a few curious stares, the novelty of Tang Sanzang’s pilgrims seemed to have worn off as that crowd dispersed. While the Liangs discussed Moonfield’s matters amongst themselves, a woman approached the monk, hair done up and babe in arms.

“Master Sanzang?”

Xuanzang smiled, genuine, when he saw the friendly co-owner of THE WANING LION’S INN, the innkeeper’s wife looking much tidier in sunlight.

“Bodhisattva,” he said with a bow, “we meet again.”

“I thought you’d gone away,” she replied, “and here you are, surprising our little village!”

“Yes, things didn’t quite go to plan and I’d hardly call this a surprise.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious as ever, venerable elder!”

Beside the monk, Wukong guffawed. “Master’s funny, isn’t he?”

“Very!” she said in agreement, Xuanzang feeling rather insulted in between.

Awake, the infant stared at the Tang priest with wide eyes, toothless mouth pulling at a fresh grin.

“Did the chieftess tell you about the blood moon?” the mother asked, “I’m not sure how true it is, but it’s always better to be safe.”

“Yes. She’s allowed us to stay at the Tiger’s Inn.”

“Ah,” was the reply, a hint of disappointment within, “then we should have a cup of tea again, maybe with all your disciples this time.”

Xuanzang bowed again. “Yes, that’d be lovely. Um, bodhisattva, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Oh? You didn’t. I’m called Yang Yachi, but that was before my marriage.”

“Then your title now is?”

“I go by my husband’s name now: Sun.”

Behind the monk, Wukong broke into a peal of coughs, having choked on the thin twig he’d just popped into his mouth. And immediately, Wujing and Bajie flanked him, busying themselves with tending the monkey’s sudden fit.

“What a coincidence!” Xuanzang laughed, “hear that, monkey? You have family here!”

Wukong kept coughing, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like fuck you to the Tang priest. Still amused, Xuanzang made to say more to Madame Sun before Liang Guo smacked his back and sent him stumbling.

“Monk,” he said, “time to work. Stay here and bless the village. The rest of your lot comes with me.”

“I have a question,” Ao Lie asked.

Liang Guo: “Yeah?”

Ao Lie: “Do we… have to?”

The dragon’s question had been a moot point because little less than an hour later, the four disciples found themselves laboring in the nearby fields, sacks loading, wagons pulling, and rice stalks pulling. Ao Lie carried and filled sacks for Moonfield’s farmers, running hither thither to bring them water from the village well, and was chastised for being too slow all the while. His senior brothers raked the fields, three demons working at a pace fit for ten and twenty men as they cleared and planted and dug anew.

“Why doesn’t baldy have to do this?” Bajie muttered in spite.

“Because he’s the Master,” Wujing said.

Wukong: “Quit whining and work. The sooner we’re done, the better.”

The second disciple raked the soil ahead and placed his head by the monkey’s shoulder.

“Boss,” he said, “baldy said you didn’t have to come along. Why give up the chance?”

“Do I look useless to you?” was the bitter retort, “this work is fucking easy.”

Wujing: “Not so easy for the brat.”

The demons stopped to observe Ao Lie, the dragon tripping in the distance, water spilling from the buckets hung over his royal shoulders. The fourth disciple crawled to his feet and ran back the way he came. And while the senior disciples watched him with vague amusement, the men of Moonfield stared at them with more than some apprehension.

“Look at them,” a farmer said, adjusting the strings of his straw hat, “monsters in our field.”

“They work like demons too,” his companion added, “makes my skin crawl. Really ought to burn them in the fire tonight- that fop of a Master too.”

“If you’ve got time to question my mother’s decisions,” Liang Guo said as he trudged by, pulling a wagon along, “then get back to work.”

“Liang Guo,” that farmer explained, “we’re not criticizing the chieftess here. Just pointing it out- those are demons, no matter what the bald fellow says.”

Liang Guo: “I have eyes. I know they’re demons, and trust me, I don’t want them here either. But they’re working fine and they’ll be on their way soon enough.”

He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow with a rag about his neck. “And you can’t go ‘round burning every outsider that comes in.”

“But we should,” the second mumbled, comment failing to reach Liang Guo’s ears.

Then Ao Lie returned, emerging from a row of rice stalks two heads taller than his own, a beam across his back, two buckets at each end. Careful, he set the buckets by Liang Guo, ladled out a bowl of water for the man and said, “Here- you must be parched.”

The chieftess’ son gratefully gulped it all, and releasing a sigh of satisfaction, he said, “Leave that bucket here, kid. Your lot can have the rest.”

The dragon bowed, beamed, and said, “Thank you.”

He lifted the remaining bucket and made his way towards the senior disciples, swearing upon his father’s heart that he would never resign himself to such crude toiling again. Upon seeing his approach, the demons dropped their tasks and gathered by the dragon’s side, Ao Lie holding up the bucket for each.

“Big brother, second brother, third brother,” he said, “Liang’s son said we could have this.”

Bajie: “Great! But aren’t you spooning it out for us?”

Ao Lie: “No way! Do it yourselves.”

Too tired to argue, the other disciples relented and ladled their own water into small chipped bowls, hungrily lapping the liquid up before plopping down by the swaying stalks in respite. Above, the sky bled orange, rays of pink casting down past the yellowing clouds.

“Bajie, Wujing,” Wukong said, “go check the other side for bad stalks. Get rid of them if you find any.”

“You got it boss!” Bajie said, dragging Wujing along on one last survey of their assigned field.

Arms crossed over his waist, the monkey stayed seated, chewing on a stalk poking from his mouth as he stared blankly ahead. Ao Lie sat beside him, enjoyed the start of evening breeze, and let his gaze wander across the grass between them. He blinked, wondering if what he saw was a trick of the setting sun- a splotch of red staining the lowest blades, fresh and wet.

“Big brother,” the dragon said, unsure how to proceed, “did you see-”

Then, with a shot of trouble, he turned that gaze on the monkey’s side, Wukong’s right palm pressed against seeping red.

“You’re bleeding!” Ao Lie gasped, “big brother-”

Wukong lashed out, slamming his left hand over Ao Lie’s mouth as he pulled the dragon back, the fourth disciple trying in vain to speak over those tight fingers.

“I’m fine,” the monkey whispered, “quit screaming.”

He let go and Ao Lie almost tumbled down. Balance regained, the dragon grabbed Wukong’s arm and said, “But big brother, we need to tell Master-”

“Baldy’s got enough problems,” Wukong said, “don’t bother him, got that? I’ll take care of it.”

“But-”

“Bailong, drop it.”

Ao Lie’s reply was interrupted by the pig’s return, Bajie happily declaring that there was nothing left to tend. And Wujing again perched his bottom by Wukong’s form, the second disciple wasting no time in following suit. But Liang Guo’s voice rang out next.

“Demons! Dinner! Wrap up your work and get over here!”

“Finally!” Wujing said.

As the other three stood to leave, Ao Lie found his eyes still glued to that red stain, unsure if he would have the appetite to eat anything more.

Chapter Text

Moonfield was a communal village, a family of people who worked and played and ate as one. Its farmers were no different, as the Tang priest’s disciples soon learned. On the border between town and field, the three were ushered into a line by long-toiling farmers, each clinging to fine clay bowls, as plain as they were sturdy. Wujing eyed the hatless heads in front of him, those men refusing to acknowledge the demon’s looming presence, and shoulders grew stiff all the same. He turned to stare at the men behind, gaze met with glares and downcast eyes, his fellow pilgrims scuffling the grassfed dirt.

“We’re not really sharing our food with these things, are we?” a man whispered to his fellow worker.

“Old Liang’s lost her mind,” was the grunted reply.

And having picked up on those sounds, the dragon prince turned his head and said with a frown, “What did you just call us?”

“Eavesdropping huh? I’m calling you for what you are- monsters and freaks.” With that, the man turned back to his companion, sparing no more than a second glare.

Ao Lie: “I am a prince, you cretin-”

“Now, now, little brother,” Bajie said as he ruffled the fourth disciple’s hair with a heavy hand, “remember Master’s orders. We’re not to get into fights with the locals, no matter how… uncouth.”

“They’re asking for a beating is what this is,” Wujing growled.

Wukong placed an arm on Wujing’s shoulder, tapped his fingers one by one, and said, low, “Keep that up and you’ll be the one asking for a beating, asshole.”

“Demons, move it,” the chieftess’ son ordered, stepping out of line to join the disciples where they stood, “or I’ll force you lot.”

Liang Guo prodded their group along, his deadpan glare prompting the cook up front to heap enough rice for three mouths into each of their bowls. The cook made to give them fresh pork when Liang said, “they’re vegetarian.”

And with a touch of disappointment, the disciples took their meal of cabbage and radish, and walked to the farthest bench, the farmers behind them taking care to sit as far from them as could be. As far as Bajie was concerned, that was for the best, for he was not fond of cannibalism. Irritated by his growling stomach, Friar Sand all shoved rice down his throat, silently blaming the cook’s bad skill for how long that took.

“It’s better than your cooking,” Ao Lie said truthfully, picking at the radish in his bowl, trying in vain to imagine it as shrimp.

Wujing: “Fuck you, brat!”

“Fuck you both,” Wukong said, fumbling with his chopsticks as he bent over his bowl, nose near touching rice, “just eat so we can go.”

“Boss, can you eat that way?” Bajie asked. The pig mimicked the first disciple’s bend, but found himself at a loss when he tried to maneuver those chopsticks.

In response, Wukong flicked a chopstick at his eye and Bajie reeled backwards with a high yelp of pain, specks of rice sprinkling between. “What’s it to you!?”

“Ah- ah! I’m sorry, boss!”

The monkey cast him one last glower as Bajie recovered, grunted, and returned to his bowl, chopsticks in hand. He shoveled a wad of cut cabbage into his mouth in an effort to keep down a telltale hiss. The wound in his side throbbed like a splintering bone, warm blood bursting over stitch after stitch with each move he made. And ignoring that ache, he ate on with a sour glare, the pain gaining twofold with every bite he took.

The dragon set his bowl on his lap and eyes on the first disciple, felt his hand move to his side of its own accord, wincing as he imagined the fire of that monkey’s stinging wound. Simply looking at Wukong was enough for the prince to feel his own skin throb. Ao Lie rubbed away the nonexistent pain and again picked up his bowl.

“Big brother,” he said.

“What?”

Wukong’s index finger was poised on the left chopstick, thumb ready to toss the utensil at Ao Lie’s head any given second. This, the dragon saw, and Bajie’s swollen eye was warning enough of what would happen if he so much as said the wrong word.

Ao Lie: “N- nothing.”

The monkey went back to eating and Ao Lie found himself once more chewing his food with guilty swallows, quite sure he would have made the wrong choice no matter what course he took: betray big brother or let him suffer on.

“Why the long face, little brother?” Bajie asked, a condescending edge to the last word.

“Better than your face,” the prince said in return.

Wujing released a chuckle that sounded like a choking snort.

“You’ve got no right to laugh,” Bajie huffed, “you’re the handsomest one here after all, aren’t you?”

Wujing: “Ha, you said so yourself! What’s wrong with being the handsomest here, huh?”

Ao Lie: “More like the strangest one.”

To the dragon’s protest, Wujing pinched one of those two horns and said, “I’m not the one with these growing out of my head.”

Bajie: “Can’t argue there!”

Wukong: “Assholes, shut up and eat.”

He slid his bowl in Bajie’s direction, stood, and wandered back into the high fields with a dim statement, “Clean my bowl. I have to piss.”

Friar Sand released Ao Lie and the pair exchanged glares before returning to what remained of their bowls, oblivious to the grim eyes of Moonfield’s farmers and their silent begone judgment. And though the monkey seemed to pay it no mind, Bajie knew the air around was tense, and as the red sun set, the tenser it only grew.

Xuanzang rejoined his disciples not long after the tables were cleared, tongue thoroughly worn out by the sermons he’d preached throug the afternoon. He’d eaten a vegetarian meal with Chieftess Liang, blessed the village altars, and upon retrieval by Liang Guo, was relieved to find the four loitering by the fields, which they had thankfully not destroyed with their presence alone.

“About time you got here, baldy,” Wukong said, tugging at that cloak, a stick of wood in his teeth.

“Amitabha,” the monk sighed, “the fields are in one piece. So you thugs can do something right after all.”

“Master, we worked really hard!” Ao Lie protested.

Wujing: “Hard? All you did was run around with water!”

Bajie held up his palms for the Tang priest to see and mock-weeping, said, “Oh Master, see what this hard toiling has done to my flesh! See the wounds and callouses!”

Xuanzang squinted. “Wuneng, your hands are fine…”

“Really, baldy? You’re actually humoring this asshole?” Wukong laughed.

Xuanzang: “Watch it, bad monkey, or I’ll-”

“Use your sodding palm, blah blah, what else is new.”

“You-”

“Holy man!” Liang Guo said, smacking the monk’s shoulder from behind and sending Xuanzang stumbling forward yet again, “come, bless the bonfire. It’s about to start.”

“Already?”

Wukong: “Better do what he says, Master.”

“Liang Guo, I’ll be there right away,” the monk said, throwing his disciples a wary glance, “and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you four.”

“My lips are shut, Master!” Bajie said, “for as long as you wish-”

He was silenced when Wukong flung a knuckle over his mouth. He stumbled back in pain as the monkey grinned. Xuanzang watched them with a sad shake of the head. Then he turned to join the men gathered in the village field.

The chieftess’ son lit a torch and passed it on, and one after the other, the men’s cressets were set alight. As if poked by Moonfield’s eyes, the Tang priest marched into the path those villagers took, the shadows of his companions passing behind. In the moonless dark, he could see nothing save what the torch fire touched-- grim faces flashing like pale masks, the ghostly heads of young and old, men and women. And as they neared its center, the field rose like a grassy ocean, grey and black in the night.

Liang Guo tapped a log of charred wood with his toe, no doubt from the night before, and rounded the pile of remaining logs. He gestured with his free hand and his men stepped forward to dump their fresh firewood atop those left over. Then he turned the torch on Xuanzang and said, “Holy man, do what you’ve got to do.”

As if on cue, every bit of light was cast on him, and Xuanzang soon found himself in a circle of fire, orange and red shadows bobbing towards him like devilish ghosts. He stepped back and heard Wukong grunt when his heel dug into the monkey’s foot. He slid a glance behind and saw his disciples gathered in place, their group of five having found themselves trapped in that tribe of flames. And for a moment, he wondered if Liang Guo meant to cast the first torch and burn them to ash on the spot.

“Of course,” the priest said instead.

He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and clapped his hands in prayer. He clutched the beads around his neck and bowed at the wood, willing his fate in Lord Buddha’s hands. The task done, he again turned to Liang Guo and said, “It’s done.”

“Then step back,” Liang Guo said, the monk wasting no time in complying.

The man moved past Xuanzang, his fellow torchbearers following suit as they parted around the pilgrims like a swarm of burning fireflies, sparing each disciple an odd glance. In front, they pressed their flames to the sitting wood, torch tips turning into smoke whilst the new fire grew and grew. It spread from corner to corner, blanketing that piece of field with yellow and red, the bonfire swirling bright against the coal colored sky.

Transfixed, Xuanzang stared with the rest of those there, heat and sparks flying past his face, bits of ash touching his still nose. He hadn’t been this close to fire since Red Boy’s tantrum in the court of Biqu and even that demon’s Samadhi flames had never been this seductive to his wide eyes. Amitabha , he thought, because these flames were made by mortal men, and then, he wondered if there was any difference between fire and flame.

“I don’t see any demons,” Ao Lie said from behind.

“Quiet, I’m trying to look,” Wujing said, eyes concentrated on what lay past that fire.

Ao Lie: “Look harder! This is so crass.”

“Crass? I think this mob’s gone mad,” Bajie muttered.

“Mad or not,” Wukong said, one eye shut as he looked on, “seems to be working. And here they come…”

“Boss, what are- oh, ugh.”

Ahead, a pack of wolves surged forward, near impossible to distinguish from the rocks and shadows around. Xuanzang squinted as they howled, realizing those heads were some mixture of man and beast, each body too large for even the strongest wolf. The woodland devils . He saw them pounce at the wall of fire, shrieking in pain upon impact, red eyes brighter than even the flames themselves. And still, they clawed and yelled in the ever-growing fire, gnawed with hunger and cursed bloodlust.

“Begone demons!” Liang Guo yelled.

“Begone! Begone!” the crowd joined in. The demons snarled, high roars turned to screams as they burnt to bone, and soon, Xuanzang could barely hear the difference between Moonfield’s chanting and the devils’ cries.

“How stupid can they get?” Bajie said, “who would walk through fire?”

“They’re not stupid,” Wujing answered, “it’s arrogance. They want to prove the village wrong and if they get in, these people are good as dead.”

Ao Lie: “That… that’s worse. Big brother, what do you think?”

Wukong heard the question, but deigned to answer, lost in thought as he watched the little devils burn. It was enough to blind and he had no doubt the smoke would soon cover their crimson eyes, as it had covered his so long ago, and then Marshal Ma’s. It must have been the same sight to Beng and the others when Erlang Shen’s fire spread and spread, Huaguo’s demons screaming in vain as it burned on, until all was ash and soot-charred earth.

And dizzy, the first disciple looked away, a slight nausea bubbling within. He turned his back on the fire and made a straight path for Moonfield village.

“Wukong, where are you going?” Xuanzang called.

“The inn!” he replied, “turning in.”

“Oh.” Then, hesitating, the monk added, “be-”

But Wukong had disappeared into the high stalks by then.

“-careful,” Xuanzang finished.

He looked at his remaining disciples, but the three were thoroughly distracted by the bonfire at work. Even the villagers had eyes for none but the burning fire, and still, the Tang priest couldn’t help but feel that there were several eyes on his back. He was sure, then, that this was not imagined. And unsure what else to do, he rubbed the beads once more.

Bajie found it rather difficult adjusting to the dark after the field’s bonfire debacle, his ears still sore from the burnt devils’ ringing howls. In the distance, that fire still burned, but the crowd around had long since dispersed, himself included. Ao Lie and Wujing were bickering beside him, arguing about which direction to take, a moot point in the pig’s opinion, seeing as their Master was leading on quiet steps.

“Boss was right,” the second disciple said to his brothers, “we should have left early. That took far too long.”

“Brutal customs for brutal peasants,” Ao Lie added.

“Like you would know,” Wujing mumbled.

And ahead, the Tang priest screamed as he rounded the corner of the CRESCENT TIGER’S INN.

“Master!” Ao Lie cried, the disciples quick to flank the monk’s side, only to see the man trembling on himself.

“Oh, Master Sanzang,” a surprised voice said, “I’m terribly sorry for the fright!”

Xuanzang bowed in embarrassment, quite sure the two demons were laughing behind his back, and said, “No, I’m sorry. Madame Sun, it’s been a long day.”

The innkeeper’s wife nodded, for once without the babe in her arms. “I hope the bonfire didn’t disturb you. It’s a heavy sight.”

Though the warning came too late, Xuanzang appreciated it nonetheless. He hugged himself against the sudden night chill and forced a smile in that woman’s direction, unsure if she bumped into him by coincidence or more.

Xuanzang: “It’s getting late, Madame Sun. I think it would be wise for you to retire too.”

“About that, venerable elder, I was hoping to-”

“Yachi?” Liang Guo asked.

Five heads turned around, the chieftess’ son approaching with a lantern in hand, brow covered in sweat and cheeks red from the firelit heat.

“Liang Guo,” the woman said, holding the younger Liang’s gaze for a moment before she looked away.

“Master Sanzang, I’ll be going now. Goodnight.”

“Amitabha.”

Madame Sun offered the disciples a farewell smile, slowed her steps as she passed Liang Guo, and crossed the street without a backwards glance. Liang Guo waited for her shape to fade into shadow and sighed, the sound so forlorn Bajie was by him in an instant.

“Sir Liang,” the pig said, “did you have a lover’s past?”

“None of your concern demon! Now get inside, all of you.”

“Bajie,” Xuanzang hissed, pulling the second disciple back and bowing in apology before the chieftess’ son.

Liang Guo scoffed and opened the door. As the pilgrims filed in, he said to Xuanzang, “You’re lucky, holy man. If you lot traveled during the blood moon cycle, those devils would’ve come for your heads. Best to stay until it passes.”

“I understand.”

Still feeling as if he was being watched, Xuanzang entered last, only for the chieftess’ face to appear before him with a welcoming grin. And all thoughts forgotten, the monk screamed again.

Chieftess Liang had assigned the pilgrims to one room, spacious enough to fit two beds and a table between. After a period of much bickering, Xuanzang divided their quarters into five: Wujing and Bajie would share one bed, while he and Wukong took the other, and assuming nobody moved in the night, they would be able to make do. Ao Lie had the choice of picking one or the other, and with no hesitation, he chose to bunk with his eldest brother.

The prince had headed for the bed immediately after and curled into a corner, looking much like a white snake in the candlelight. Wujing and Bajie lay side by side on the opposite bed, either fast asleep or too tired to talk. And Wukong was dangling by the window, peering out for whatever it was that the Tang priest feared so.

“Still don’t see anything, baldy,” the monkey said.

“Then try harder,” Xuanzang ordered, “are those fiery eyes for nothing?”

Wukong: “I feel like a pervert.”

“Stop complaining!”

“Fine!”

The monkey stared out again, poked his head left and right, and turned back with a negative nod. Xuanzang made to force him again when he heard the first disciple’s sharp gasp. And the outside forgotten, he grabbed Wukong’s arm and asked, “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That noise!”

“What noise?”

“Don’t mess with me, bad monkey. You made a disgusting sound.”

“Your voice is disgusting.”

Xuanzang tugged his sleeve, glared, and said, “Quit it. Come here and let me see.”

“See what?”

“ Wukong .”

“Let it go, baldy.”

“Alright… My child, my child, why -”

“Wait! Wait! Don’t be so hasty. I’m coming, Master.”

Wukong rolled his eyes, snatched his arm out of Xuanzang’s grip, and dropped on the ground, legs crossed one over the other. The Tang priest circled him, prodding at his backside for signs of blood before coming up front and sitting across. Lips pursed, Xuanzang placed his hands on Wukong’s chest, pushed the cloak aside, and lifted the fabric that covered his dressed torso. And blanched.

The bandages were stained with browned blood, the puncture on his side held together with leaves dyed red, no doubt fresh picked and slapped over the very same day.

“What’s up with this, bad monkey?” the monk said, “how long has this been bleeding?”

“It’s not bleeding now.”

“Why would you hide this from me!?”

“Let me go, baldy,” Wukong mumbled, prying the Master’s hands away and spinning on his bottom until the monk’s eyes faced his back.

“You,” Xuanzang spat, “you’re going to get yourself killed this way.”

“What part of ‘immortal’ do you not understand?”

He knew that word no longer applied. Then, reminded of his exchange with the earth god, Xuanzang sucked in a breath and stiffened, outraged by the audacity of that lie. Who’s the Master here anyway, monkey?

“Fine, have it your way, damn ape,” he said, jabbing a finger at Wukong’s back, though he was quite sure the latter couldn’t see it, “but did you ever think for one second what would become of the rest of us? If you’re that heartless, then fine, abandon our journey!”

Wukong snorted, head sliding to fall on a lazy palm. “You’re fucking noisy, baldy.”

The finger fell, Xuanzang’s head lowering as his eyes shifted to those flickering candles, wax waning into the night. And voice down to a near wisp, he said, “Then at least stop and think what would become of me… without you.”

Wukong said nothing, stone still as he stared ahead, and worn out by the day’s events, Xuanzang decided he could care less if that demon heard or not. He climbed to his feet, discarded his cassock, placed it by the bed in a folded pile, and took his place upon the bed. Ao Lie barely moved as the monk lay flat, eyes glued to the wood ceiling.

“And blow out those candles when you’re ready to sleep, stinky monkey,” Xuanzang said, “it’s too bright.”

On the opposite bed, Bajie opened one eye to a half slit and pointed his sight at the first disciple’s back. He’d heard enough of that conversation to know it was best to feign ignorance. This, he would share with the fish in the morning. How interesting , he thought, how tantalizingly interesting .

Then, for a moment, he wondered if a shadow had flit by their window.

As expected, the following day met the pilgrims with even more of Moonfield’s glares, nearly every villager convinced that the priest from Tang would turn his demons on their home at any given moment. And this rumor, as Xuanzang soon learned, came from the loud and respected mouth of Officer Yi.

“He’s still holding a grudge?” Ao Lie said in disbelief over the breakfast table, Liang Guo having delivered that news with no shred of affection.

“Of course he is,” Wukong replied, “it’s only been a day. Men like him are the pettiest.”

“Petty?” Xuanzang said, “what’s wrong with you four? You assaulted that man the day before! He has every right to be mad at us.”

“Now, now, don’t hold it against him, venerable elder,” Chieftess Liang said as she poured more tea, Wujing thirstily emptying his cup while Bajie picked at his stiff steam bun.

“Officer Yi’s always been a rash boy,” she said, patting Liang Guo on the arm, “and as long as you boys stay in line, there won’t be any more trouble.”

Xuanzang: “Hear that? No more trouble!”

Wukong: “Speak for yourself, baldy.”

The Tang priest shot him a glare, but refused to bicker on, and this did not go unnoticed by the second disciple. Bajie cleared his throat and said, “Well, if all’s said and done, are we to work in the fields again? Or would the beautiful chieftess prefer-”

He lowered his gaze in Liang’s direction and all but purred out, “company.”

Then Liang Guo was upon him, fists wrapped around the pig’s robes as he pulled the demon into a tight choke hold, the second disciple gasping all the while. “Have you no fucking shame, demon!? My mother is eighty!”

“Ah- punish- ah- me!”

“Careful, boy!” Wujing laughed, “you’re making him happier!”

Liang Guo: “You perverted fucks!”

Ao Lie watched this go on for a good two minutes before he looked to the monk and said, “Master, should we break this up?”

As if pulled from his thoughts, the monk blinked and nodded, his calm face a stark contrast to the scene at hand. “Oh, yes. Wukong, take care of this.”

The monkey lifted a foot and kicked that table on its back, Bajie and Liang Guo flipping with it as they rolled through the air. Diving back down, they fell into Wukong’s grip, one collar in each of his hands. When Bajie opened his mouth to speak, Wukong dropped them both, demon and man slamming into the ground with separate cries.

“Now where was I?” the Chieftess said, “Officer Yi can be a rash boy. Ah, there we go.”

Liang Guo spoke as little as possible to the disciples in the fields, no doubt embittered by their morning incident, much to the amusement of the demon trio and chagrin of the dragon prince. And so, throughout the afternoon, Ao Lie made sure to be clear in who he was- the noble prince of the western sea, with no affiliation to demonkind. In response, Liang Guo had simply said, “Uh huh.”

Again, his senior brothers worked the fields, plowing through like some unholy force, their combined efforts doing twice the labor of every farmer there. On account of their productivity, Liang Guo said nothing more of their last argument, and though he was grateful for this, Ao Lie couldn’t help but look to the others present.

“Look at the imp go,” he heard a farmer say.

“Hope he doesn’t stab us with those horns,” another said.

And Ao Lie twisted his head to shout, “I am a dragon, you uncultured peasants!”

With a huff, he walked on, water buckets sloshing at his sides, but that outburst did little to dissuade their gossip:

“It’s unnatural, the way those three work.”

“You’ll have nightmares about the blue one.”

“That mask creeps me out.”

“Didn’t that first one say he was a monkey? Looks like he’d eat you on the spot.”

“Chieftess is getting senile, eh?”

“Hear, hear.”

Ao Lie assumed that the demons could hear their comments too, and seeing as his senior brothers regarded them with nothing save a proud amusement, he opted not to engage further. He was too busy running back and forth anyway, and thus, the afternoon passed once more, sun setting into dusk. And soon, the figure of the Tang priest appeared before them, the Master having spent a day trying to speak with Officer Yi.

“So how’d it go, Master?” Wujing asked, Xuanzang gesturing for the four to join him at a distance, far from the farmers’ ears.

“Terrible,” the monk sighed, “such a narrow-minded little man. I mean, yes, the lot of you did try to kill him, but me? I’ve been nothing but the epitome of a good priest! Of course, I won’t say that because I’m low-key.”

Wukong: “Did he arrest you?”

Xuanzang: “Chieftess Liang stopped him. Anyway, that’s not the point. I have something important to tell you, all of you.”

“A secret? How juicy, Master,” Bajie said, Ao Lie nodding in agreement.

It was the fourth night of what these mortals called the Blood Moon Cycle. What an ugly name , she thought. It was such a boring name, unspecific and lacking in a certain poetry. Had it been up to her, the cycle would have had a much better name. She shook her head in pity for these small people, swaying grass tickling her legs as she made her way through the high fields.

Ahead, she saw them approach, that man’s scent so near. It was a hard scent to forget, almost mouthwateringly memorable. She laughed, silent, as they neared, the Tang priest’s handsome visage at the lead, their shapes illuminated by the little fires behind. The monkey was next, followed by the pig and fish, and a boy whose pretty face she would surely have recognized.

They were exactly as she remembered, and seeing them then, she wanted nothing more than to tear them to itty bitty bits. And now they were close, so so close.

She stopped behind a curtain of high stalks, the Tang priest’s pilgrims chatting among themselves a few feet away, as oblivious as the sky above. Then they stopped speaking altogether, stiff in their spots and breaths baited in. The first disciple turned first, slowly lifting a finger to stick in her direction, and twig bouncing in his mouth, said, “Do you ever feel stupid, getting tricked by us all the time?”

Then, he cocked his head and added, “Come out.”

And begrudgingly, she applauded them with clap after clap, snarl twisting into a grin as she stepped out.

Chapter Text

Eyes pinned to the rustling stalks ahead, Wukong kept a digit aimed at that emerging figure. The others held their breaths beside him, Xuanzang holding one hand forward, as if ready to call on the Sodding Palm if need be. Pale yellow robes waved under wind, bare legs tickled by grass beneath, a rich sash of gold and silver shimmering as a woman’s waist eased into view. Then silk and steel glinted and glistened, a shining headpiece above a head of flowing dark hair. And when that long hair parted, Wukong lowered his hand, satisfied that his order had been met.

The newcomer’s lips split into a scarlet grin, her eyes lined with golden paint, and a powdered glow about her cheeks. Flashing white teeth, she laughed and said, near snapping, “So you caught me. Good for you, good for you! It’s been a while and I did so miss you all.”

Ao Lie gasped. “You’re-”

The dragon furrowed his brows and looked to Xuanzang. “Who is this?”

Wukong: “Minister Jiu Gong. Now, what did ol’ Tathagata call you again? ”

The monkey laughed, a low condescending snarl, and said, “The Nine-Headed Immortal Golden Vulture, that’s it. He let you out so soon, nine heads?”

“Or maybe she broke out,” Bajie said, “you really can’t trust criminals in this day and age.”

Wujing: “What an asshole.”

Xuanzang met Jiu Gong’s gaze, noting that the mirth of her grin did not reach those vicious eyes, and said evenly, “Minister, what is your purpose? I should hope you’re not looking to fight again.”

“Yeah! You’re no match for Master’s Sodding Palm!” Ao Lie piped, before adding hesitantly, “Right, Master?”

Xuanzang placed himself in front of Ao Lie and glared at the vulture. “And I’d suggest you think twice before harming the people of Moonfield.”

“Whaaa?” Jiu Gong said in mock disbelief, pressing a hand to her heart, “Me? Harm these little villagers? I’d never do such a thing. Don’t you remember, dear priest? I only do what the heart wants.”

Then, in a blink, she was gone. The vulture appeared behind Ao Lie and drooped to his height, silks snaring him like tendrils as long fingers framed the dragon’s chin, sharp nails poking into tender skin. Holding his breath, Ao Lie watched Jiu Gong rake his features, transfixed by her wild grin. She’s mad , he thought, absolutely mad.

“Your disciples are all so adorable, aren’t they?” Jiu Gong cooed.

She pushed Ao Lie away with a rough shove and in a glide of blurred yellow, moved onto Xuanzang within a blink. The Tang priest froze as she yanked him forward, nails digging into the front of his cassock, other hand poised to strike. “But I still think you’re the cutest of them all… Tang-Tang .”

Xuanzang: “Hey, a little help here!”

“Ah, you’ll be fine, baldy,” Wukong said.

“And by cutest, I mean, most irritating.” With that, Jiu Gong released the monk, her grin finally receding into a scowl. “If not for you, I would have met all my heart’s desires. But Lord Buddha plays favorites, I suppose, and not all of us are as lucky as you .”

She gestured at all of them, taking the time to fire a glare at each of their faces, and hissed, “You fight dirty for holy men, and my only regret is not killing you all sooner. You’ve no idea what I suffered since then, and believe me, I’ve suffered. Much .”

Ao Lie: “I don’t know you.”

Jiu Gong: “Quiet, kid!”

Then she shut her eyes, sucked in a breath, and exhaled, hands opening of their own accord. She sighed and muttered, “Deep breaths, deep breaths.”

The pilgrims eyeing her with caution, Jiu Gong lowered her arms and placed them in front, palms one over the other. She opened her eyes with the faintest of twitches and smiled. “Lord Buddha’s disciplined me well. Now I can look at your faces without wanting to dismember all of you. I just wanted your band to understand that I still hate your guts with a passion.”

Xuanzang: “Uh, yes, you’ve made that very clear.”

Wujing: “We hate you too.”

Jiu Gong replaced her incoming frown with yet another serene smile, now regarding the pilgrims with heated bemusement, rage still evident in her eyes. “In return for my freedom, Lord Buddha sent me to… advise you, Tang Xuanzang.”

The monk raised both brows, jolted by the statement, and said, “Amitabha, this is a turn of events.”

“And how do we know we can trust her?” Bajie asked.

“We don’t, asshole,” Wukong replied, “it’s all baldy’s call.”

“Stop calling me that,” Xuanzang muttered before he said, louder, “I say she’s honest. Then by Lord Buddha’s orders, Minister Jiu Gong, we’ll put aside our differences.”

Jiu Gong: “Delightful, how delightful! I knew there was something between us, Tang-Tang.”

Wukong: “Then cut to the chase, nine heads. Why the fuck are you here?”

The vulture laughed, rather forcefully, and said, “Candid as always, elder Sun . I’ll be sure to cut out your tongue next time… now, why here? Our Tang priest is in a pinch. You’re being tailed, Tang-Tang dear-”

“I knew it!” Xuanzang snapped, gesturing at his disciples in validation, “see? See, bad monkey? I told you but you didn’t believe me! See? See!?”

“Shut it, baldy!” Wukong said, “I didn’t see anything! And you’re believing her over me?! What gives?”

Jiu Gong: “If you’re done interrupting, I’ll go on! You’ve caught the attention of someone who’s both bad and strong, and that does not make a good combination. So either he’s so strong this monkey didn’t notice, or you, elder Sun, are so weak, you didn’t notice.”

“Then who’s after us?” Wujing demanded.

Jiu Gong put a finger to her lips and giggled. “That’s a secret. Lord Buddha said I had to advise you- I don’t have to baby you.”

Wukong approached the former minister, kicked the cudgel up by its tip, pulled, and- whoosh!- swung down, nicking off a net of hairs as Jiu Gong slid out of temper’s way.

“Stop bullshitting!” he snarled with a yank of that staff, its end bumping into the vulture’s pointed nose. “Tell Master now or your skull’s coming off!”

Jiu Gong: “Aww, you’re going apeshit on me. Isn’t that cute?”

She shuffled away from the as-you-would cudgel, feet crunching grass as she leaned up against him, mouth near pressing cheek.

“And why’s that, monkey? Because you know I’m right, hmm?” she said in a floating hum.

Muscles twined with rage-bound nerves, Wukong bit and snapped that twig clean in two. Murder promised, he yanked the cudgel sideways and struck again, only to stop and skid when Xuanzang’s face replaced Jiu Gong’s.

Wukong: “What the fuck, baldy!?”

Between vulture and monkey, Xuanzang heaved, the cudgel before his eyes, and whispered a prayer at having avoided the disciple’s wrath. Behind him, Jiu Gong laughed.

“My bald hero,” she said in mock glee.

And ignoring her, the Tang priest said, “Wukong, calm down. The minister comes to us as a servant of Lord Buddha. Let’s just listen a little longer, alright?”

Then upon seeing the monkey’s stormy face, Xuanzang bit back the next string of words- you’re in no condition to fight anyway . Wukong gulped, the sound like lead, and locked that vicious gaze on the Master’s knowing eyes. Then all was silent.

Until Bajie spoke: “Wait, wait now- how long has this been going on? We’re on a terribly busy schedule.”

Jiu Gong pursed her lips, then said, “Since the Bodhisattva came to you.* They’ve been watching and waiting since.”

“They?” Wujing cut in, “now there’s a they ?!”

Bajie shook his head in shallow condolence. “Alas, we’re such a charming group none can resist us. But this is such heavy news- what would we do if Master was slaughtered by demons, what would we do.”

The pig leaned against Wujing’s shoulder, the fish eyeing him with disgust, and said, “Or worse yet, what if it’s not Master… oh, I’m shaking already!”

“I didn’t see anyone when I was following big brother around,” Ao Lie said.

Xuanzang cast his disciples a disapproving glance and looked again to the grinning vulture. “Then, minister, tell me, what would Lord Buddha have us do now?”

“Keep your guard up, Tang-Tang,” Jiu Gong replied, placing a seductive hand on the monk’s covered chest while her fingers roamed free, “keep this beautiful body alive and don’t lose faith. These enemies won’t fall for your tricks like I did- they’ve waited long enough to see-”

Her eyes flicked to Wukong for a split second, the demon still looking like hellfire.

“-That you’re all falling apart,” she finished.

Bajie looked from priest to vulture, unsure if the conversation would go on, and Wukong had been silent since. The second disciple prepared to break the silence when Xuanzang said, rather awkwardly in the pig’s opinion, “Thank you, minister. Along with Lord Buddha and the Bodhisattva, I’ve no doubt that Xiao San would also take pride in your efforts from the afterlife.”

Wukong: “Baldy, what the-”

Jiu Gong threw her head back and howled with laughter, body trembling with cackles from crown to toe. She shook her head between breaths and said, “Xiao San? Tang-Tang, you’re serious? You have the gall to mention her?”

Xuanzang yelped when a nail poked him in the chest.

“Don’t be righter than thou with me!” the vulture said.

Poke!

“You seduced her, you used her, you killed her!”

Poke!

“And well played too! I thought she was hooking you when-”

Poke!

“It was you luring us!”

Poke!

“But I don’t give half a fuck about that wimp of a demon, so don’t pretend you do either!”

Poke!

“Don’t you blame this shit on me!”

Xuanzang found himself pedaling backwards, step by step as that finger nailed him in the chest, nigh close to breaking skin. But something in all of Jiu Gong’s spew touched a nerve, sprung, and let it bust. He stood ground and looked her on as she finished with a final poke.

Xuanzang: “You don’t give a ‘fuck’?”

He hadn’t thought of Xiao San since then, had purged her from his mind as soon as she came in, and let what had been be. And yet the minister chose to fan those flames he’d since put out: sorrow, anger, and the sliver of fondness he’d had for the dead demon.

“Minister, I must disagree,” he said, “I wish we didn’t have to lie to her, but it was your ploy that pushed us. It was you who sent her in, it was you who treated her life as nothing.”

Xuanzang clutched the beads hanging about his neck, rubbing them together as he spoke. “She was just a pawn to you. You saw a victim you could use. You knew what you were putting her up against. You ruined any chance she had of salvation.”*

Jiu Gong: “You-”

Xuanzang: “So don’t say you feel no guilt, minister. Because I can’t think of any other reason for your blaming me.”

Jiu Gong paled with unsaid rage, finally lost for words, while the disciples watched. Bajie whistled, and said, impressed, “Good speech, Master, good speech!”

Ao Lie: “Master burned you with words!”

“You weren’t even there!” Jiu Gong snapped.

Wujing: “So do you have anything else to say or is that it?”

“We ever seeing your stupid mug again?” Wukong said, batting the cudgel against his hand.

“I’ll take my leave now,” the vulture answered after a moment’s pause, “provided Tathagata lets me. And mark me, you’ll wish I’d stuck around more.”

With that, Jiu Gong turned and added, “By the way, I don’t feel guilty. Fuck you, Tang-Tang.”

Moonlight sprinkled as her robes melded into shadow, Jiu Gong disappearing into the wind with a beam of soft light, leaving nothing behind save a grass print of nine vulture heads. Xuanzang bowed and whispered, “Amitabha.”

Wujing observed the last of Jiu Gong’s light fade, calculating her warning through his head. If they had been followed since Liu Manor, the watcher would have seen them leave Wuzhuang. There would have been ample time to attack the Tang priest with the first disciple down, but nothing had happened of the sort. Then why? He thought, then why?

“Why?” Bajie heard the fish murmur.

“Why what?” the pig asked.

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“Then keep on thinking,” Wukong said, “I’m done here.”

While the monkey trudged past with a sour-faced glare, Ao Lie reached for his sleeve and said, “Big brother, let me come with-”

Wukong pushed out of the dragon’s grip with a muttered, “fuck off, Bailong.”

He hadn’t used that tone with the prince for days. Ao Lie stopped, dumbstruck, and lowered his disappointed hand. Wukong faded into the tall grass stalks without a word to Xuanzang and the monk did not pursue.

“What’s wrong, little brother?” Bajie said in fake sympathy, “boss doesn’t favor you anymore? Ah, how bad that must feel.”

“Like he favors you ?” Ao Lie retorted, “he’d kill you if he had the chance.”

Bajie laughed. “He couldn’t do that to me. To you, however, there are plenty of things that’d like to kill you, little brother!”

“Try me!” the dragon said, “come on, lets-”

Wujing: “I said shut up! I’m trying to think!”

Xuanzang stepped in, then, and said to his remaining disciples, “Have some shame! If any of you dare fight in Moonfield, you’re facing my Sodding Palm. You’re brothers- act like it!”

And huffing, the Tang priest walked off, back into the fields and towards the villagers by the fire.

“What’s bothering them now?” Ao Lie muttered, not daring to pursue the Master’s angry backside.

“Xiao San,” Bajie said wistfully, “she was the fourth disciple before you came, the minister’s pretty little spy.”

Wujing: “She was a demon, white bone all the way through. Master made her think she reminded him of… someone else.”

“Because she did,” Bajie mused, “she really was in love with him, but he never had eyes for her. Still had an ugly spat with the boss over her though. We say it was acting, but some things baldy said-”

“Were real,” Wujing finished.

Bajie: “Real ugly, real ugly. Even made the boss cry, you know?”

Wujing: “Master cried too. It was very dramatic. But it’s all bullshit now- Xiao San’s dead anyway.”

“Then maybe the vulture’s right,” Ao Lie said, eyes focusing on that distant fire, “maybe Master’s the one that feels guilty…” For what happened to that demon, for what he said to big brother, for everything leading back to Duan.

“And that, little brother,” said Bajie, “is what pisses eldest brother off.”

Ao Lie: “How long was Xiao San with you all?”

Bajie: “Like, a day.”

Wujing cackled, cracked and harsh, as Ao Lie released a flabbergasted, “seriously?”

“And what a day,” the pig tacked on, “what a day.”

Wukong kicked away the dead stalks in his path, soles crushing twigs as he stomped his way through the moonlit fields. He held up an arm, letting the sleeve roll down, and stared at the dimming wounds. The lacerations from Zhenyuan’s whip were almost healed and soon those harsh cuts would be nothing but scars. He wondered if the monk would notice, or if those marks would just become scars among scars, no more business of Tang Sanzang.

The Tang priest never loved the white bone demon, this much he knew, and still, he knew the girl’s death weighed on Xuanzang’s mind. Had Master truly been so desperate to save Xiao San, the monkey would have rolled his eyes and ignored all else. But he knew, that act or not, it had never been about Xiao San- for a split second, Xuanzang had seen her as Duan.

He had wanted to save Duan.

And again, the first disciple played villain, a role Xuanzang let him fill without question. Then their fallout had been a charade from start to finish, filled with petty feelings fit for the stage.

But Xuanzang had fooled him too. The monkey had thought, believed, that Xuanzang purged Xiao San from his mind, that Xuanzang knew she could never be Duan, that Xuanzang had stopped seeing him as the damndest devil around. Then the monk had mentioned Xiao San, right to the minister’s face, and then, Wukong knew that the forgiveness he dared not beg for would never be.

“What would become of me without you?” the Master had asked. And the first disciple had almost believed Xuanzang had wanted him as much as Wukong wanted-

As much as the priest wanted Duan. And perhaps for a moment, the priest did. But Tang Sanzang was lonely and damaged and oh-so-guilty. And Wukong wondered if he was as well, if he had no business envying the very woman he killed and the demon he let die, for every moment Chen Xuanzang loved Duan was every moment he would hate Sun Wukong. It was for Duan that Xuanzang mourned the white bone demon, for her that he had been so moved by the girl’s death.

Would he mourn me too?

He knew the answer. The arm went down. Wukong stopped in his tracks, shuffled his feet in the dirt, and basked in a chill of wind. He chuckled, lips twisting into a grieving smirk. He felt no jealousy for Xiao San, and perhaps even less for Duan. It was much simpler than that, he realized, because it was a strangling sorrow that pushed him along like a crying spirit. It was heartbreak, through and through.

He’d lost everything and still, he could feel that stone heart tear on and on. It’d tore in Huaguo, it’d tore for Beng and Ma and all his clan, and even before, then after, it’d tore for Xuanzang again and again, through every waking day he lived.

And for once, in a near thousand years of existence, the Great Sage Equaling Heaven wanted nothing more than for the pain to stop.

But he had a job to do. “I see you,” the monkey said, shifting to eye the grass-filled ground.

A scorpion froze, pincers clamped tight as blades of grass blew over its reddish head. Wukong let the cudgel tap the earth nearby and said, “Something your size has really got no business going against us.”

The scorpion crawled out, six legs crossing and tail blood red, its shadow the size of a pipa mandolin. The pincers clicked together, pinching up a noise that sounded like giddy laughter, a demented giggling that challenged Wukong forward.

“I heard what nine heads said,” the scorpion told him in a woman’s singsong voice, head morphing into that of a painted mask, etched red and lined with black.

He knelt and picked her up by the waist, taking care to pinch her sides together with sadistic glee. Wukong held her up to the moonlight, glaring fire as she squirmed and writhed in his tightening grip.

“And what’d she say, asshole?” he asked dryly.

“You- you’re huuuuurting me,” the scorpion whined.

“Aw, you’re hurting me ,” he mocked back.  

“She said you’re too weak to sense us! Ahh, stop it!”

“Fuck. Something like you? I could see you from a mile away.”

The scorpion’s presence was new to the fields, this much he was certain. And another thing Wukong was sure of was this- Jiu Gong was wrong. There had been no stalker, or rather there had been no body to this invisible enemy. It was a portion of a demon that followed them, so small and insignificant that only the holy likes of Xuanzang would notice.

He flipped the scorpion on its belly, shook, and watched an eyeball roll off, veins losing hold of the scorpion’s shell.

“Hey! I need that!” she cried.

The eyeball hit the ground, turned on its back, and stared at him with a glass green iris, pupil a menacing slit.

“So this is what nine heads was yapping about,” Wukong said, nudging the eye with a foot, “go fuck yourself, demon.”

He looked again to the scorpion. “And you, who are you working for? Who's fucking eyeball is that?”

“I’d rather die than tell you, meanie!”

The monkey grinned, feeling much nastier than he had in a very long time. And- scrunch!- the scorpion’s ribs crushed in his hand. As she struggled for escape, he lifted her high, laughed, and dangled her over an open mouth.

Wukong: “You’d rather die, eh? Fine with me!”

“No! No! No! Stop it-”

He opened wider and prepared to toss her in, ready to bite down and swallow her in one spiteful gulp when- “Help me!” - a man’s terrified screech pierced the silent air. Stunned, he dropped the wounded demon, swept the cudgel over his shoulder, and dashed in the direction of that desperate cry. And under his shadow, the eyeball rolled away.

Running towards the sound of that scream, Xuanzang pushed past the high stalks obscuring his way, three disciples at his heels. He felt for the center and stepped out onto open grass, everything grey and orange in night and fire. Top-knot undone, a man lay in a shallow ditch, body muffled in bloodied silk, an all too familiar web making its way across his head. And as he wailed, the first disciple stood in front, batting away a pack of blazing devils with the as-you-would staff.

“What happened!?” the monk yelled.

Wukong turned a head of gold, face encased with bristling fur, and said, “Like hell I’d know!”

Wujing: “Boss, look out!”

A wolf collided with the monkey’s chest, saliva swinging as its teeth sunk into the plate of Wukong’s shoulder. The first disciple slid the cudgel back, dug a knee into the devil’s back, and flipped it all the way round. Then- “change!”- the cudgel stretched and burst through the wolf’s backside with a splash of blood. Wukong tossed the corpse aside, faced the pack once more, and returned those snarls with his own.

Ao Lie entered the ditch at Xuanzang’s behest, and together, they pulled the man out, silk trailing like entrails behind. While the dragon’s claws undid his binds, the man looked to the Tang priest and said, “Venerable elder! Venerable elder, help!”

“You can relax!” Xuanzang said, “my disciples and I are here to save the night, but we won’t say that because we’re low-key!”

Ao Lie: “So you better be grateful, peasant.”

The man shook his head as the silk came loose. Clinging to Xuanzang, he struggled out of his webbed prison and gasped, “Not me! The village!”

Ao Lie tilted his gaze upwards, saw his seniors tearing their way through the pack amongst blood and howls, and stared into the bonfire.

“The fire-” he began.

“Won’t work,” that man said, “not on bigger demons! I-”

He clutched Xuanzang’s hand, eyes wet. “It was me, venerable elder. I was in a daze- I wasn’t thinking- I was- I don’t know.”

Xuanzang: “Calm down, venerable sir, what did you do?”

“I told their chieftain-”

Wujing cut open a dashing wolf with his spinning spade, crimson flying out as the moon fell into scarlet shadow. Fire became smoke. Moonfield screamed. And all was black.

“-how to put out the fire,” the man ended.

Xuanzang held him, baiting breath as his eyes sought for light. Ao Lie’s hair shone pink in the moonlight, that moon eclipsed with blood red. The dragon looked to Xuanzang and said, “Master, what do we do?”

“We do as he says,” the monk said, “exorcise Moonfield and-”

“Yachi!” the man gasped, “venerable elder, my wife, she doesn’t know yet- please save her-”

That name sparked in the Tang priest’s mind, the image of the innkeeper’s wife coming forth. Then the man in his arms was none other than the husband, Sun.

Xuanzang: “I will, good sir. Even if it kills us.”

Ao Lie: “That’s right- wait, us ?”

Xuanzang shushed him and said, “Hurry, tell me what happened. I can’t help if I don’t know.”

Sun shifted, looking left and right as he shook the webs off, much to the chagrin of Xuanzang’s robes. “I’ve been sleepwalking, dreaming of- someone very dear. But it must’ve been a demon’s work. I don’t know how long this trick’s gone on, but she asked me how to put out the bonfire... I said: with sea breeze. Then her arms became-”

He pointed at the remains of the trapping silk and said, “this.”

Xuanzang bit his lip, mind clicking to the last time he saw Madame Sun, and blamed himself for not realizing sooner. She’d wanted his help, then, for she worried over her husband’s ailing spirit, but soon dismissed it as a petty fear when Liang Guo interrupted. And the Tang priest too had been distracted from the matter at hand. Now the consequences bled around them like burning night.

“Go back to the village,” Xuanzang ordered, “tell them not to worry. Get Master Liang, and I’ll-”

Sun: “Elder!”

Before the next word even whispered, the monk was pulled back, falling in a heap of flapping robes and screams as low shadows bound his ankles down. Xuanzang clawed at the dirt, pulling grass and earth while he called through grit teeth: “Wukong!”

The first disciple heard, pounded another wolf back, brought the cudgel upon its skull, and charged forward in a flurry of dusted blood. He flew past the innkeeper as Ao Lie ducked, and landed in front of the struggling priest. Behind, a mass of shadows tugged at the monk’s legs, eyeball over eyeball swirling within its dark shape.

“So you’re the asshole fucking with us?” the monkey growled.

“Don’t talk to it! Save me!” Xuanzang snapped.

Wukong: “I’m getting there, baldy!”

The monkey’s arms stretched, hands latching onto Xuanzang’s shoulders as the shadows tugged and tugged. The Tang priest cried out when Wukong managed to wrangle one leg free, the shadow snapping back behind them. Then those hundred eyes rolled back and through, until a hole of a mouth revealed itself, glistening red under the blood moon.

“Tang Sanzang, I won’t let go until I have your life!” it roared.

Xuanzang: “What did I ever do to you!?”

“You know full well what you did! You and your bastard disciples!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wukong said, “cut the crap!”

He swung the cudgel down and a dark tendril rose to catch it midway, staff and shadow inches from the Tang priest’s head.

“You murdered my sworn sisters- the spiders of Silken Cave! For that, you’ll pay!”

With that, the shadows charged forth, enveloping the monk in a cloud of black and bouncing the first disciple left. Wukong tumbled, staff in hand, and recovered in time to see Xuanzang reach forth. And mind blank, the monkey reached back, fur grazing finger as the priest pulled away.

“Wukong, I’ll! Be fine!” Xuanzang cried, “save Moonfield!”

“Baldy-!”

“I have the Sodding Palm! Go!”

A wolf fell over the first disciple, then, taking him down in another tackle as eye upon eye spread over the devil’s shadow, the Tang priest carried away with each melting tendril. Wukong rolled, climbing over the wolf as he watched Xuanzang fade from view, teeth bared in a screeching snarl. He bit into the demon under, tore it limb from limb, and turned, staff over shoulder, Moonfield in view.

Behind, the Buddha’s Sodding Palm shot from the heavens, gold against red as it parted clouding smoke. Wujing swatted another wolf back, twisting his spade through its throat, and looked to the skies with a silent gasp. The palm swept down, crushing what appeared to be the silhouette of centipede legs, and stayed stiff as those legs fought back.

“Quit staring!” Ao Lie said, “we have to save Master!”

The dragon ran past Friar Sand, the innkeeper trying in vain to keep up, their hands barely tangled. Then a golden head popped between, Wukong yanking both back by the folds of their sleeves.

“We’re going to Moonfield,” the monkey ordered, “Bailong, take this asshole. Wujing, Bajie, with me!”

Ao Lie: “But-”

Wukong: “We take care of the village, then we save Master. Baldy’s so dumb he won’t have it any other way.”

Wujing: “Sounds like Master.”

“Come on,” Wukong said as he took off,  “the quicker, the better!”

And still spinning from the carnage at hand, Bajie gathered his rake and jumped after with a call of, “Boss, what if we leave baldy behind-”

“Oh, shut up!” the monkey snapped.

Xuanzang braced himself for a tumble as the devil’s tendrils rippled left and right beneath him. Arms raised high, he leapt down, the golden palm striking along while he dropped below. Those shadows pursued, thousand eyes rolling about, pupils swirling like a mass of poisoned petals around the Tang priest. He fell against the wrist of the Buddha’s summoned hand, gulped, and let another spell out his lips.

The palm slammed through that demon’s defense, squashing a cluster of eyeballs flat and dispelling a spike of shadow into solid red. The demon howled in a mix of rage of pain, retreating into a man’s naked shape, his skin tattooed with shadows coiled, and body littered with eyes sunken in. On his chest, Xuanzang saw the white shape of a centipede’s mark, as if the creature itself was buried into that ribcage.

But the monk knew all too well that the body was but a shape, and the demon’s true face lay in the centipede itself.

A golden thumb pressed against the demon’s head, ready to crush every bone in one swift push should the Tang priest wish.

“I hadn’t meant for them to die,” Xuanzang said, solemn.

“It must be so easy,” the centipede said through a quivering throat, cradling his bleeding arm, “to say that from there. I thought you of all people would know, priest… how it is to lose what you love.”

Xuanzang stiffened, willed himself not to fall for the demon’s tricks, and said, “I deal with my own ghosts. And I hope no loud mouths are spreading rumors in the world.”

The centipede extended his good arm, palm open as he begged, near-human tears streaking down those cheeks. “Then please, if you can’t bring my sisters back, spare me, let their memory live with me.”

Xuanzang: “I won’t ask for forgiveness, but for your life, I ask that you leave the village be.”

“Priest…”

“I failed them, but your soul, I can help.”

That said, the Tang priest took the demon’s hand into his own, genuine grace in his eyes. Because for all his tricks, all his schemes, and all his boasts, Xuanzang was and always would be a kind man. At his core, he knew there was risk, but he took it all the same.

“Master Sanzang! Stop!” a voice cried.

He knew there was a chance this dare would work, as it had with Xiao San and those four disciples.

Xuanzang glanced up, a figure in the distance, familiar black beard flowing down and a tassel in a white-sleeved hand. The Immortal Zhenyuan, patriarch of the local earth, flew towards him, alight with panic.

And he knew there was a chance this dare would not, as with Honghaier and the minister before.

Zhenyuanzi arrived one step late. Then the centipede’s shadows struck, looped around the Tang priest’s arm, and- snap!- broke the bone in two.

“Yachi!” Sun called, stumbling forward as his wife fell into his web-covered arms, the babe in between.

“What’s going on?” the woman asked, “what is this- where- where’s the venerable elder?”

“It’s all his fault,” Wujing said, towering over the couple as he caught a pair of incoming wolves and- crack!- broke their necks.

“You should have kept your mouth shut,” Wujing spat at Sun, “now look at all the shit we have to do!”

The fish turned to the plight of Moonfield village, its people running wild and waving torches in a desperate bid to survive the woodland devils, that clan of demons coming through the fields in a never-ending pack of teeth and fur. In the village square, Bajie held his rake, and like a toy top, spun, until those nine prongs rendered the demons around him blood and meat.

Ao Lie ran around and grabbed Yachi by the wrist. “You and the child, come with me!”

Wujing: “You trying to run away, brat?!”

“I’m not a coward, you dolt!” the dragon snapped back, “if you had any manners, you’d know that we aid women and children first!”

Yachi: “I still don’t know what’s going on!”

“Ask your dipshit of a husband!” Wukong growled, jolting the innkeeper’s family as he landed behind, cudgel still spinning in his hands.

“I knew this would happen!” Officer Yi accused from the rooftop, cowering along with the rest atop.

Wujing looked up and yelled, “Like hell you did!”

Ao Lie ushered Yachi towards the center of the square, a crowd of villagers already rounded, and yelped when a fallen wolf gripped his ankle. A spear came down and pierced its head.

Chieftess Liang lifted her weapon, flicked the blood off, and straightened the white headband around her head, a strip of yellowed cloth: “Have no fear! We’ll send these vermin back to hell by the time this night’s over!”

“Kill or be killed!” Liang Guo added, joining with his own weapon. He scanned the villagers’ faces and the demons crowding in before asking Ao Lie, “Where’s your Master?”

“Kidnapped by demons,” the dragon replied honestly.

Liang Guo: “Fuck. I knew you lot were bad luck.”

“It’s not their fault,” Yachi said.

Upon noticing her, the younger Liang was by Madame Sun’s side immediately, Yachi awkwardly sandwiched between him and Sun as Ao Lie looked on. The senior disciples backed up into the crowd, the villagers retreating with them as the wolves crawled forward.

“Trai-tors!” the devils chanted, voices jumbled and low, as if speaking for the first and last time, “trai-tors!”

“Traitors?” Bajie said, “are you talking to us? Why, I’d never.”

Wukong laughed, pointed the staff, and said, “Oh, that’s a first!”

Wujing joined in and Ao Lie chuckled nervously as his brothers cackled, little difference between their manic laughter and the growls of those devils.

“We know you!” one of the woodland devils said, rising on two legs as it took pseudo-human shape, “we know all of you!”

And the pack went on.

“General Juanlian, Marshal Tianpeng! You were celestials, weren’t you? But look at you here! No better than us! No better than us!”

“Better looking, at least!” Bajie charged back.

But his voice was drowned out when the demons spoke on. “Heaven’s outcasts, unwanted up, unwanted down- nothing but freaks, freaks, freaks!”

“That’s it- I’ll rip them apart!” Wujing cried, rushing forward and grasping two wolves by the throat.

“Heaven’s convicts, demon’s traitors!” the pack chanted.

And it was then that it occurred to Ao Lie- these were not the thoughts of every wolf in unison, but rather a mantra beat into their brains, over and over by whoever this ringleader was. And before he could voice his thoughts, they disrupted him again, the pack turning their eyes to the first disciple now.

“The Monkey King!” the devils said with glee, “you sicken us most!”

Wujing: “Boss, what the fuck?”

“Let them finish,” Wukong said coldly, “I wanna hear.”

“You were demon first, demon first, demon first!” they accused, “but not good enough, no! You wanted heaven and they said no!”

Wukong lifted a hand from the cudgel and cupped his left ear. “Go on, grandpa’s listening.”

“We weren’t good enough for you! You betrayed us and you lost! But heaven cast you out and you’re nothing, less than nothing, the worse of the worst, most hated in all the three realms!”

“Hey! Take that back!” Ao Lie retorted, but his words were moot.

“You three! Not man nor demon, hated by heaven and hell- you’re nothing but dust and bugs!”

Bajie: “I can’t say they’re wrong, but it’s rather hurtful when they say it that way. Right boss?”

“I was hoping for better insults from these fucks.”

Wukong supposed that was the end of their chant, for the pack started to repeat themselves from the top. And rolling his eyes, he snapped his fingers. Bajie and Wujing wasted in no time to charge, and soon those chants were silenced by the fight commencing once more.

The monkey joined one step after, taking care to whack each demon in the mouth, quite sure that though he knew what they said to be true (more or less), such unoriginal drivel had done nothing but waste the disciples’ time. And while Ao Lie guarded the villagers gathered, he realized the most important detail of all.

“Damn it!” the prince said, “they forgot me!”

They spoke of Juanlian, Tianpeng, and the Great Sage, but no time could have been spared for King Ao Run’s third son? In a rage, Ao Lie swooped down, stretching into the white dragon’s native form as he collected a cluster of devils in one fierce bite, and took to the sky, gleaming silver against the blood moon.

Below, the pig swung his rake once more, poking its teeth through each devil that crossed his way. And whistling, he turned to the first disciple, still furred gold and armoured grey, and said, “Boss, I know these are low-level demons, but this is taking a lot of time.”

“Yeah, what’s your point?” Wukong asked, prying open a wolf’s head and plucking its tongue out.

Growling, the monkey ripped that tongue clean off and popped the demon’s head.

“It’s ugly, but you and I, why not show our true forms? Go boar and ape on them?”

Officer Yi: “Hurry up! You’re exorcists, aren’t you!?”

“Shut up!” Wujing shot back with a thrust of his spade, the tip barreling through a crouched wolf.

Go boar and ape? Wukong deigned to answer, deeming the pig’s question a waste of time, but he knew Bajie’s reason to be sound. He could rise stories tall, as he had then and then, and ram that body of rocks into every devil here, and perhaps charge straight to their lord. But such a move took power and chi, and his body, as it stood, was far too weak to pull it off.

Bajie: “Ready when you are, boss!”

“Waste of time,” the monkey said, “don’t drag me into this, asshole.”

“I’m willing, boss, but-” Bajie bit his tongue instead and took the first disciple’s orders to heart. He would fight in this shape if it so pleased that monkey, but the words echoed in his mind- but are you? - and he already knew that answer.

“Monkey, look out!” Yi said.

Wukong turned, a pile of devils descending on him like a flock of birds, and against that weight, he could only fall, the cudgel rolling from his grip.

“Big brother, I’ll save you!” Ao Lie cried, voice cutting through the dragon’s roar in a throaty boom.

The white dragon twisted his body and dove down, careening straight for the wolves piled over his senior brother. The villagers screamed, rushing out of the dragon’s shadow, just as the prince realized he’d soon crash.

“Big brother, save me!” the prince cried next.

Wukong rolled those eyes, kicked a duo of devils off his waist, and jumped to his feet, the wolves flying back. He swept the fallen staff back into his hand and- change!- rode along its growing form as the as-you-would cudgel grew and grew, until it stood straight against the dragon’s streak. One palm pressed on the staff’s tip, the monkey swung both legs over and pushed himself over the dragon’s spine.

Wukong tumbled along Ao Lie’s mane until he reached that royal head, wrapped his hands around the horns, and steered the dragon north, Bailong’s belly a breadth away from all those below. They touched the sky once more, and as the cudgel shrunk back into a staff that fit his hand, Wukong saw the moon go dark. That shine of light from yonder no longer cast.

He turned, eyes widened as he saw the Buddha’s Sodding Palm disappear from view in a snap of black.

“Baldy,” he heard himself say and that one word was enough for every panic and fear and rage and sense to rise through every fiber.

And sense less , he hopped off the dragon, descending back into that demonic fray, only one task in mind: he would kill them, each and every one.

Xuanzang felt himself slip, a sudden cut of chi as sharp as the pain in his cracked arm. Without so much as a cry, he fell backwards, lungs white hot, the centipede’s eyes swirling around. Zhenyuanzi caught him mid-air, and Xuanzang in his grip, the patriarch turned, flipping that tassel at the demon in front. When the monk next blinked, they’d landed on the ground, Zhenyuanzi propping him by a tree as the centipede cried out. Twice wounded, that demon hit the dirt, blood gurgling from his mouth, a deep slash across the chest.

“Master Sanzang, let me see,” the patriarch said with a furrowed brow.

Zhenyuanzi took hold of the priest’s limp arm, looked it over, and said, “This is bad, but it’s just the bone- we can heal this-”

Teeth grinding, Xuanzang looked over the patriarch’s shoulder, forced himself to see into the distance, and managed to say, “Moonfield-”

And jaw dropped, he saw a cyclone of blood under the crimson moon, a blur of gold tearing its way through corpse upon corpse of wolf. His first disciple was clawing his way through every demon from village to wood, with a cruelty so fierce Xuanzang mistook him for a devil himself. The monkey bit and scratched, pounded that cudgel every way he could, and spared no room for shouts.

He tore and tore in his approach, popping heads and slicing throats, a road of steaming blood in his wake. Such lust for blood, Xuanzang hadn’t seen since the moments before Duan’s death, and in that instant, he was back there . He was there and he could see Sun Wukong, features twisted and laughter raw, happy to slaughter all who dared challenge the demon king, all who had the gall to stand in his way.

And Duan was there. And he’d shown no mercy.

The monkey struck. And she was gone.

And so distracted by the demon’s fury, Xuanzang failed to see the centipede rise once more. When he looked again, the devil was already on his way to strike the patriarch’s back.

“Zhenyuan!” the monk shouted, on instinct doing the only thing he could.

“Elder!”

He shoved the immortal away, saw the centipede come, and waited for the fastest blow. But Wukong was faster.

The monkey landed between man and devil on spread steps, staff spraying blood about the Tang priest’s head as he stood firm, eyes narrowed as he took that hit square on. It thrust him overhead and smashed the first disciple into a row of thick trees, taking every log down as he slid. And the wind from that thrust sent Xuanzang crashing into the nearest bush, Zhenyuanzi’s form following not soon after.

And as soon as he fell, Wukong jumped back up. He pounced on the centipede before the demon could make another move. And relentless, the monkey delivered blow after blow, hacking his staff like a butcher’s axe. The shadows struggled to fight back, but were no match for the Great Sage’s wrath. And when Wukong at last stopped, there was nothing under him but thick black blood and the smoking shadow of a broken bug.

Chest heaving, Wukong collected his breath, dug the cudgel’s edge into the earth underneath, and looked to where Xuanzang stood. Sitting by Zhenyuanzi, Xuanzang stared back, aghast at the crimson all around, twice red under the blood moon.

“Amitabha,” the monk whispered.

His right arm dangled limply, but the pain was gone, for his mind was too numb to sense it through. He couldn’t hear anything more, not from the village or crickets overhead, and even the patriarch’s voice was but a mumble. All he heard was the tearing of flesh, again and again as death looped in his mind, as if wounds he thought scars had reopened twofold.

Wukong approached him, brows raised in worry, fur soaked in the devils’ blood. En route, the monkey shook himself back into human shape, gold head turning black. And soon, he was crouched in front of the Tang priest.

“Baldy, are you alright?” he asked, pangs of concern in every word, “Master- your arm-”

The next word never came. Xuanzang was tossed back into the present, seven senses tripled with every pain there was, when Wukong froze still. Eyes bulging, the monkey gagged, red spilling from between his lips. Wukong doubled over, coughing and coughing heaps of fresh blood.

And before he could hear the Master say his name, Wukong felt himself topple under a spinning sky, the world closing in around him until he saw nothing but black upon black.

Chapter Text

Xuanzang sat within the WANING LION’S INN, bundled in a blanket that wrapped over his scalp, left hand gripping the edge to his chest. Numbed with fatigue, the monk stared at the cup of steaming tea Madame Sun had so generously left on the table in front. But he was too parched to drink. His right arm was hidden within the bloodied cassock, bones set and joint bandaged by Zhenyuanzi’s silk sling.

The patriarch was only a few steps away, in a room with paper windows, his shadow grand in the candlelight. Zhenyuanzi was kneeling by the first disciple’s prone silhouette, the remaining three pilgrims gathered outside the door. Only the Master remained where he sat.

His throat was sore. Xuanzang couldn’t quite recall what happened the night before. He remembered Zhenyuanzi grabbing him from behind as he screamed the monkey’s name. According to the immortal, he’d been hollering at the top of his lungs, first as a cry for aid before devolving into utter nonsense. Xuanzang believed him.

He had been pried from Wukong’s form by the patriarch. He didn’t remember when he had been passed into Liang Guo’s arms or when Madame Sun had ushered him into her home, or why her home and not Chieftess Liang’s. Perhaps Officer Yi had insulted him in some way, but his mind simply could not remember.

What he did remember was this-- Wukong toppling over, a stream of blood leaving the corner of his mouth in rivulets that seemed to never stop.

The image repeated in his head, again and again like some sort of cursed stage act. And try as he might to forget, each detail played out as vividly as he remembered. Xuanzang tightened his hold on the blanket, shutting his eyes to purge that memory, and opening again when he failed. Sleep was not an option, for the nerves in his damaged arm screamed too hard to be ignored.

The door slid open, and as Xuanzang lifted his head to look, the three disciples were already in the patriarch’s path.

Bajie: “Is- is he dead?”

“Why would you ask something so stupid?” Ao Lie snapped.

Wujing grabbed Zhenyuanzi’s arm and said, “Well, say something!”

With a scoff, the immortal shook him away, walking past the disciples as if he’d never heard them. And bickering, they followed, all three coming to a stop before Xuanzang. In a strained mumble, the Tang priest asked, “How is he?”

The patriarch stroked his beard, took a seat by Xuanzang, and said, demeanor gentle, “All right. My magic has done what it could, and now there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some rest and water. Fortunately, the damage was minor.”

Xuanzang: “Then, what is the damage?”

“Just some ruptured organs here and there.”

“How is that minor!?” Wujing said.

Bajie: “May I ask, which organs?”

Zhenyuanzi fixed the fish and pig with a single glare, decided to let his irritation go, and answered, “The liver, the stomach, a lung, need I go on? I’m confident you understand anatomy. And yes, when it comes to your eldest brother, this  is  minor. He’s been through worse, I’m sure.”

Wujing: “Like when you beat the shit out of him.”

The patriarch’s nostrils flared, chin high as he said, with no small amount of anger, “If not for me, he’d be much closer to death! How dare you- as if  I  would wish any harm on my younger brother.”

Incredulous, Bajie bit his tongue, and thought,  You almost skinned him over a few fruits .

“I’d like to blame that devil, Master Sanzang,” Zhenyuanzi continued, “but I’ve examined your disciple’s body... he was already in a bad state. And this was nothing more than adding flame to oil.”

Xuanzang nodded, a flat “I know” leaving his lips.

Zhenyuanzi turned to the disciples. “Can’t you see your Master is tired? Go elsewhere.”

Ao Lie: “But-”

Xuanzang: “Xiao Bailong, Wuneng, Wujing, do as the patriarch says.”

“Of course, Master,” Bajie said, “your wish is our command.”

While Ao Lie protested, the second disciple ushered him and Friar Sand away, eager to head to bed. When the last of their arguing had faded, Xuanzang glanced at the patriarch, eyes beckoning him to speak on.

“I don’t trust that pig demon, bit of a gossip by the looks of it,” Zhenyuanzi muttered. He shook his head. “No matter, there are some things I wanted to tell you in private, venerable elder.”

“Is it about Wukong?”

“No.”

Xuanzang shut his eyes in relief, but the relaxation was short-lived when the immortal said, “it’s about you.”

Zhenyuanzi touched the broken arm, fingers gently pressing along each nerve. “This arm of yours, if it was a mortal injury, you’ll heal in a mortal’s time. But this is a demon’s damage, cursed and spiteful.”

“That doesn’t sound… good.”

“It’s terrible, Master Sanzang, I won’t lie to you. And my magic can only go so far- even when the bone mends, the demon’s grip will stay. This one harbors a particularly strong resentment.”

“I’m aware.” Xuanzang stared at the arm, stiff in its binds, unable to muster the proper concern for it, mind preoccupied with Wukong and Wukong alone.

“There’s a devil’s bind on your bone. These seals are rare to come by, though not impossible to remove.”

Xuanzang: “Can I break it with the Buddha’s Sodding Palm?”

“That’s the issue. You can’t use the Sodding Palm with that seal, not unless you undo it with chi,  life  chi, Master Sanzang.”

“Patriarch, I’d never murder another for this!”

Zhenyuanzi: “Then all you can do is pray.”

Xuanzang wanted nothing more than to slam his head against the floor. Hopefully, it would crack open and he’d finally be free from this progressive nightmare of an evening. But he knew these were just idle thoughts, exaggerations to keep him distracted from the problems at hand.

“Do you have anything else to say, patriarch?” he asked.

“Your first disciple will be fine,” Zhenyuanzi said, a nervous twinge to his tongue, “it’d be more beneficial if you worried more about yourself. However…”

Xuanzang looked away, eyes once more falling on the door to where Wukong rested.

Zhenyuanzi: “He would die for you, Master Sanzang. That’s a wonderful thing for your pilgrimage- he’ll take you west, no matter the cost.”

Xuanzang said nothing. He knew full well what the patriarch said was true, and perhaps it’d never occurred to him how raw those words were until it left another’s lips. It left him uneasy, leaving him wondering for the first time what he was to that monkey.

“As Zhenyuan the Immortal, I tell you that,” the patriarch continued, “but as your friend, Master Sanzang, I tell you this… let him go.”

Xuanzang turned to him again, unsure what was being said. “I don’t understand?”

“This won’t be the first or last time he risks life and limb for you. And in this state, Sun Wukong won’t survive your trip west. This, I know. But the choice is yours, Master Sanzang.”

Zhenyuanzi’s tone was grim, the patriarch no doubt aware of the gravity in his words. But the Tang priest could only stare into those grave eyes as the earth all but crumbled beneath his feet.

Wujing shoveled away the rest of the devils’ corpses, and stepped aside as the farmers lit the clan afire. He looked up, beams of pale sunlight shining through the dawn. The villagers worked to patch up their ruined buildings, too busy to give the blue demon their signature glares.

The fish yawned, muscles still sore from the fight before and weary at having been woken at the crack of dawn. In pink robes, Bajie walked back and forth with wooden boards, pretty gent’s face plastered for all to see. Ao Lie wandered about, Officer Yi nagging at the prince all the while.

“Didn’t your Master tell you to save the village?” Yi said, “look at this damage, you call this a rescue, demon?”

Ao Lie: “I’m a dragon! And none of you are dead, are you?!”

At his wit’s end, Ao Lie spun around and whipped a finger at the officer’s face. “My Master was injured saving you lot and our eldest brother’s yet to wake, so shut your dirty mouth!”

Yi backed away, turned silent by Ao Lie’s outburst, a dragon’s temper flaring across the prince’s boyish features for the very first time. Bajie sidled over, clasped a hand on Ao Lie’s shoulder, and said, “Come, come, little brother, let’s not start anything.”

“But-”

Xuanzang: “Xiao Bailong, listen to your second brother.”

At that tired voice, the disciples turned in unison. Xuanzang walked towards them, a battle-worn sheen about him, as if he’d crossed thunderbolts and feared no more. The villagers parted as he walked, no doubt surprised by the monk’s bitter countenance.

He stopped before Officer Yi, bowed, and said, “Excuse the damage, but given the circumstances, I’d hardly consider this bad. My first disciple risked everything for Moonfield and I trust the people appreciate his efforts.”

Yi: “You-”

Xuanzang: “We exorcised this village out of the goodness of our hearts, officer. We asked for nothing in return. I may be low-key, but please don’t cross this holy one.”

“Since when did baldy get so sharp with words?” Bajie whispered.

“He’s always been a jerk, but only to us,” Wujing muttered back.

Ao Lie cast them a glare and looked again to Xuanzang, the monk leaving a flabbergasted Yi behind as he approached.

“After Wukong wakes up,” the monk said, “we’ll pack and leave. We can’t waste any more time here.”

Wujing: “It was your idea to come!”

Xuanzang blinked, as if not quite awake. And then he was. He nodded. “You’re right. I- still, be ready.”

After another blink, the Tang priest walked off, and before the disciples could ask where, a chorus of cheers drowned each voice. Bajie turned, only to see the villagers crowding in front of Zhenyuan the Immortal, the patriarch waving as they scrambled to kowtow and spill offerings at his feet.

“Zhenyuanzi, I love you!” he heard an old man cry.

The patriarch returned each compliment with a celestial’s smile, frame practically glowing as he walked on, nearly floating with each proud step. And all too elated at seeing their patriarch in the flesh, the villagers went wild with tears and celebration beside him.

Since the first disciple remained absent, Wujing did the honor of rolling his eyes.

“Tudi,” Xuanzang said to the empty fields, the smell of burnt wood and grass still lingering about, “Tudigong, it’s Tang Xuanzang again… I need you.”

When he received no reply, the monk gulped and dropped to his knees, preparing to kowtow and summon the earth god with another prayer. As he placed his head against the ground, he heard a woman say, “Master Sanzang, don’t cry!”

Xuanzang tumbled over, rolled over his robes, and clumsily stood back up. “M- madame Sun!”

Yachi ran up and put her arms around him. And blushing, the priest said, “I- I wasn’t crying.”

“It’s alright, Master Sanzang, you can cry around me. I’m here for you.”

“What? Madame Sun, really, I’m-”

“You’re not alright, I know.” She pulled away and looked him in the eye, nothing but sincerity in that concerned face. “I’m sorry about Elder Sun.”

Xuanzang felt his features change at the mention of those two words, and that look said it all to Yang Yachi. She took his good palm in hers and pressed them to his chest, smiling reassuringly as she said, “He’ll be fine, I know.”

Xuanzang: “Thank you.”

Then the monk remembered what scene was unfolding before them- a married woman embracing him, both standing alone in the fields. He stepped back, held his left hand up in prayer, and awkwardly said, “But I wasn’t crying... may I ask what you’re doing here, Bodhisattva?”

“I was going to make you breakfast, but then you left in such a hurry. I was afraid you’d be here alone, what with that broken arm and all.”

The innocence in her voice told him she had no other intentions, and wary, the Tang priest could only choose to believe it.  She’s madly in love with her husband , he reminded himself,  she’d never think of you, right?

“Thank you,” he said, “I’m very moved, Madame Sun.”

Then she took his hand again, and Xuanzang could only think  I was wrong! Damn it! Wrong! Wrong!  as he babbled on: “Wait, bodhisattva, this is- I’m a holy man- you’re married- please!”

Yachi let go, tilted her head, and clearly offended, said, “I know that. What do you take me for, Master Sanzang?”

And now he’d offended her, the one person who had cared enough to offer comfort, so mortified, the monk dropped to his knees and kowtowed.

“Forgive me, bodhisattva, I meant no offense. I’ve just been too tired to think.”

“Get up. I know that too.”

She stooped down as he sat up, and again put her arms around him, much like a mother to a son.

“Guess I can’t blame you. You’re so handsome, Master Sanzang, you’ve probably got women throwing themselves at your feet all the time.”

“That might be the case, but I don’t speak of things like this because I’m low-key.”

Yachi laughed, a warm chuckle that spread to the monk though he meant no humor. Looking to the open field, she told him, “You’re always so funny... maybe that’s why I trust you.”

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and said, “I really was sorry about Elder Sun. I know how you feel- helpless, sad, wishing you could do more.”

“Madame Sun-”

She turned to him, ever honest. “I lost a person too, very very close to me. I’d always wondered if we would have been happier together.”

“I know this feeling all too well,” he replied, more to himself than her, Duan’s face again surfacing in his mind after so long a period without.

“But this person loved someone else more. I wanted them to be happy, I really did.”

Xuanzang: “Did this person know?”

She shrugged and said, “I hope so. This person was smarter than me. I watched them marry, and then she died in childbirth.”

She . It was a woman. Yang Yachi had been in love with a woman. Startled, Xuanzang’s eyes widened, meeting her gaze as he asked, “Childbirth? Then this person was-”

“My husband’s ex-wife,” she said with a sad laugh, “so I took her place, lived with the man she loved, and birthed a child that should have been hers. Maybe part of it was spiting her for leaving us. Or maybe I could be closer to her this way.”

“Was that the case, Madame Sun?”

“In a way. I love my son more than life itself. And I do love my husband, really, but, I- she was gone. And even her ghost haunted him, not me. I was so jealous, Master Sanzang, so jealous that she haunted him instead.”

“Put that to rest, bodhisattva, we all learned that it was a demon in disguise.”

Yachi nodded, placing a hand over her breast. “It still hurt, Master Sanzang. There’s a hole in me where she should be, but she’s gone and I don’t even have a ghost to fix it with.”

“I- I’m sorry.” Xuanzang was at a loss for words, the woman’s statement an exact reflection of his own heart, mirroring in a way that no more replies could match.

“I told you too much, I’m sorry, Master Sanzang. But I thought you’d understand.”

“But why?”

She smiled again, that smile meant for him and no one else. “Because the way Elder Sun looks at you… is the way I looked at  her .”

“Master,” was the first word he heard, a strained whisper that escaped his lips the very moment he woke.*

Wukong stared at the ceiling, blinking away remnants of sleep from his eyes as he settled into consciousness once more. He wondered where he lay, and as he pondered on, a rumble of coughs rattled his throat, familiar pricks of pain bouncing through his chest. The events from the night before blurred through his mind, freezing on the image of the Tang priest cradling that wounded arm.

What happened next, he had difficulty piecing together, but he assumed he’d fallen one way or another during the fight. With a groan, he forced himself up, blankets shifting, a desperate panic urging him on- he needed to see the Master safe before all else. The monkey glanced down, body bandaged from chest to waist, each layer of gauze tighter than the last. When he looked up, paper windows surrounded him, a thick pile of cloth beneath where he sat- a floor-made bed.

Wukong scanned the room, finding no traces of the as-you-would cudgel or his robes for that matter. Teeth grit, he stood, legs as sturdy as cotton while he walked towards the door on unwilling feet. He pushed it open and immediately fell back when Ao Lie responded with a sharp “AH!”

The dragon fell on his butt, bushels and bushels of bananas falling with him, a small hill of yellow pooling in that doorway. Ao Lie shook off the pain, crawled to his feet, and all but flew to the first disciple’s side.

“Big brother,” the prince said, “you’re awake!”

Wukong allowed the dragon to help him up, too grumpy to offer a proper greeting, and said, “Where’s baldy?”

“Master went to meditate.”

He’s fine, was what the monkey heard. Relieved, he gave in to those tired legs, and would have sunk to the ground if not for Ao Lie’s sturdy grip.

“Big brother, careful! You’re hurt…  again .”

Those words did little to faze the first disciple, for the Tang priest was alive, and he assumed the village itself was in tact. He pushed himself away from Ao Lie, scooped up a banana, and bit straight into the peel.

“So what are these for?” the monkey said as he chewed, the taste fresh against his dry tongue.

Ao Lie: “I picked them for you, big brother. I thought you’d be hungry when you woke.”

Wukong swallowed the rest of that fruit and chuckled, near grinning as he said, “Are bananas all I eat, Bailong?”

Ao Lie flushed and ran a nervous hand through that pale head. “I- I didn’t think you’d mind, big brother.”

“I fucking love bananas,” the monkey said, “but peaches, now, those are the best.”

He looked down at the prince, enthused by Ao Lie’s antics, some familiar joy resurfacing within. He hadn’t felt this way for centuries, and for a moment, Wukong was back in Zheng Chozi’s home, Xiao Wa and Xiao Hua sleeping by his bedside. But he wasn’t that ape anymore and Bailong was not Xiao Wa or Xiao Hua. The memories faded as soon as he next blinked.

“You did a good job with these though,” Wukong mused, “I’ll give you that, little brother.”

Ao Lie’s face lit up at those words, and before he could reply, Wukong had already made to leave. Stuffing a few bushels between his arms, the prince ran to join him, forcing himself into the role of Wukong’s crutch.

“Big brother, where-”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Oh! Drying- there was a lot of blood Madame Sun washed off.”

The bloodshed, at least, Wukong remembered. The aches in his chest, he did not, but the dull pain told him these new wounds were internal. They were severe, he assumed, but this, Ao Lie did not need to know.

Sensing that the first disciple would say no more, Ao Lie chimed in, “Master’s going to be very happy once he sees you, big brother. He was so worried he couldn’t sleep.”

They rounded a corner, Wukong pausing to catch his breath. The monkey’s features brightened, voice surprising Ao Lie with a shy, almost gloating, “Really?”

Then it dawned on Ao Lie that the Master’s affection was what would please big brother most. He nodded and answered, “Yes! He had a broken arm but he didn’t care about that one bit. Just you. Actually, he didn’t care about the rest of us either.”

Come to think of it, the Tang priest hadn’t asked on the wellbeing of his other disciples at all, and thinking back, Ao Lie realized they’d been slighted.

“Is his arm alright?”

“Zhenyuanzi said it’d heal!”

They reached the inn’s door and Wukong furrowed his brows, tilting his head as he said, “Zhenyuan? When did he come-”

Ao Lie opened the door and was again bumped away when Zhenyuan the Immortal swooped in and pulled Wukong into his embrace.

“Younger brother! I must rejoice at seeing you well!”

“Define well,” the monkey gasped, breath lost, “and what are you doing here?”

Dizzy, he walked on, Zhenyuanzi’s arm around his shoulder, steadying every step.

“I’d heard your Master rejected my invitation to the Ginsengfruit banquet, so I left the earth gods’ meeting early. My servants say your band took up in Moonfield Village so I paid it a humble visit.”

They stopped in the middle of the village square, the monkey squinting as sunlight washed over his groggy vision.

Zhenyuanzi: “Good thing I came when I did. Those devils really did plan to slaughter the village that night, and with it, your Master.”

Bits of memory pieced together, and Wukong began to recall glimpses of Zhenyuanzi here and there. Vision cleared, he could see the villagers hiking about, nailing new wooden planks and the like.

“Elder, tell Old Sun what happened after.”

“You saved Master Sanzang from that centipede, Great Sage. Although you suffered some injury afterward. Fortunately, I was able to contain the harm. I shudder to think of your fate if we’d left you with these mortal healers.”

“The centipede?”

“Dead! You did a mighty fine job on him!”

“What about-”

The patriarch had stopped listening by then, instead choosing to parade about the square with Wukong in his arms.

Zhenyuanzi: “Come, come! This is the one who saved your village, applaud my younger brother, the Great Sage Sun!”

The people of Moonfield stopped their work to obey, overjoyed as they came out to cheer for Zhenyuan and his sworn brother. Wukong accepted their applause with a half-hearted grunt, fully aware that he was gaunt with blood loss and save those bandages, his top was bare. He appeared a wreck of scars and gauze, and was far too tired to care.

“Boss! Boss!” the second disciple cried, pushing his way past the crowd to stand at Wukong’s side, “I’m so happy you’re fine!”

Wukong: “What’s with this getup? Looking for sex again, asshole?”

Bajie laughed, a charming gentleman’s chuckle, and said with a wave of his fan, “Oh boss, I missed your good humor!”

“Boss, you just got up and already, you’re taking all the credit!” Wujing said, the next to swat his way pass the crowd and into Wukong’s path.

The monkey only rolled those whites, Zhenyuanzi passing him into Friar Sand’s grip. Ao Lie squeezed in between them, Wukong’s cloak in hand.

Ao Lie: “Big brother, here! Put this on.”

The whole village had already seen him nude, and Wukong thought it pointless to contest the past, but Ao Lie had come. He bit back a shot of snark and took the cloak with a nod of his head. As Bajie helped drape it around him, the disciples again turned to the crowd and accepted their cheers with stroked egos, Zhenyuanzi laughing behind them.

Liang Guo had decided to keep Sun’s involvement a secret from the rest of his villagers. The devils acted of their own accord, and that was that. Xuanzang learned this from Yachi and though he knew the younger Liang had spun the lie to protect her, he daren’t ask more. She’d taken the pilgrims into the WANING LION’S INN not soon after the first disciple’s collapse. Zhenyuanzi had needed to tend Wukong on the spot, and the Sun inn was far closer than the Liangs’.

And so worn out from the night’s battle, good Chieftess Liang retired for the night, her son tending her from dusk to dawn. They had no time for Xuanzang and his band, and this, the monk understood. Yachi shared all this with him as they walked back to Moonfield, as if their last conversation had never taken place.

He’d parted with her with an embrace and sent her home first. Himself, the Tang priest had another matter to attend to. He could not sense Tudigong but another, he could. And so, turning on the outskirts of Moonfield, he looked to a well and said, “Minister Jiu Gong, I know you’re here.”

A head bobbed above the well, the vulture’s headpiece gleaming in the afternoon sun. Jiu Gong rested an elbow on the edge and tapped her nails along the stone.

“Aww, you ruined the surprise, Tang-Tang,” she said, “I was hoping to scare you.”

“I’ve had enough frights by now.”

“Oh, I can imagine.” Jiu Gong placed a nail in her lips and grinned. “It was a real show last night, I wish I was part of the fun.”

Xuanzang stiffened, nearing the well with half a mind to yell. “You… saw everything?”

“Of course! My favorite part was when they fucked up your damned monkey.”

The monk’s good hand was on her robe by then, the fabric scrunched in his fingers, every ounce of willpower telling him not to strike with that broken arm. Jiu Gong laughed, howling aloud as she said, “That’s it, Tang-Tang! This is what you should do all the time- follow your heart! Do whatever you want!”

Disgusted, Xuanzang let go and turned his back on her, muttered prayers on his lips.

“You could have helped,” he said, “would it have killed you to help?”

“I only do what Lord Buddha told me. Advise, was all he said. So that’s that.”

So that’s that . Xuanzang lowered his head, wondering if there was anything more to say. He’d thought of the patriarch’s words, thought them over until they were raw and used. But that blow had been meant for Zhenyuan and Xuanzang had chosen to take it- if it had been anyone else, Xuanzang knew he would have chosen to do the same. This, he would not deny.

But Wukong had paid the price regardless, and the Tang priest had been so adamant that it would not happen again. He’d failed.

“Here’s my advice,” Jiu Gong said behind him, “it won’t matter what you lot do to me. That ape’s done for either way, and he won’t be useful to you for long. I’d use him to the end, but you, Tang-Tang, you’ll probably want him gone before that.”

“Be quiet,” the monk said, with such animosity that the vulture obeyed.

That said, the Tang priest made his way back into Moonfield, Minister Jiu Gong again smirking at his back.

“A little to the right,” Chieftess Liang said, waving her tiny fan to and fro as she stretched on the wooden chair, “left, left, there, perfect!”

Bajie set the table down, a litte way from the door of the CRESCENT TIGER’S INN, and cracked a grin. “Chieftess… this is exactly where I put it before.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

“What was?”

The pig only smiled, flabbergasted as the chieftess laughed, Liang Guo returning to serve her warm tea.  She must be doing this on purpose , he thought. But it beat toiling in the fields and repairing the rest of the village. For Zhenyuanzi’s official welcome (and to thank Xuanzang and his disciples, an afterthought no doubt), the chieftess had decided to prepare a communal dinner in the village square. All of Moonfield was welcome and it was there the patriarch intended to again invite Xuanzang to his banquet. And all of this, the second disciple had heard through a healthy round of eavesdropping.

“The devils are gone, so that’s one good thing that came out of having you demons here,” Liang Guo said.

“Our pleasure, our pleasure,” the pig replied.

“Then stop calling us demons,” Ao Lie said in passing, an armful of blue flowers in tow, “I’m a prince, the third heir of the Western Sea.”

“Nobody cares, brat,” Wujing said behind him, Liang’s cooking pot strapped to his back, the fish having offered his services in cuisine (much to the younger Liang’s chagrin).

“Great Sage!” the chieftess called, “how are those extra tables coming along?”

Wukong replied with a positive wave of his hand, a dozen or so round tables popping into being, perfectly waxed and fitted, each from a single hair. Ao Lie set the flowers on the nearest table and said, “Big brother, did Master Puti teach you that?”

“More or less. What, you can’t?”

Sheepish, the prince smiled. “Not really.”

“Wait.” The first disciple put a hand behind Ao Lie’s head, fingers close to the ear as the dragon froze. “What’s this?”

With a flick, Wukong pulled out a cornflower, the words “Yu” and “Long” tattooed over its petals in clear white.*

“How?” Ao Lie gasped in delight as Wukong dropped the flower into his hands.

And laughing airily to himself, the monkey said, “I’ll show you, little brother.”

Excited, Ao Lie followed him aside, Wukong plucking a hair from each of their heads and blowing into the wind, conjuring pink orchids and the like. Xuanzang saw the floating petals when he returned, first met with the sight of Ao Lie chasing the monkey about those tables as Wukong hopped from here to there.

Ao Lie blew a ghost of a flower at him and Wukong slid off his spot. He removed a strand of pale hair from the fourth disciple’s crown and twisted it into a sapphire peach. The two laughed, and transfixed, Xuanzang could only watch- his disciples were happy, the monkey’s joy especially foreign to his ears, almost heartbreakingly so.

“Master’s back!” the dragon cried, bright with excitement.

“Finally!” Wujing said from his place by Chieftess Liang and her son.

“Are you feeling better, Master?” Bajie said as he strided over, but the Tang priest passed him without a word.

He kept himself on a steady beeline towards the first disciple, Wukong turning from Ao Lie to meet his gaze. He could see the relief flutter over Wukong’s glad eyes, that face instantly lighting up at his arrival, as if Xuanzang was sun above cloud. And this did nothing but hurt the monk twice over.

“Master,” Wukong said, and before he could go on, Xuanzang spoke, chest tight as he forced his voice out.

“Bad monkey…”

“Now what?” the first disciple said, meaning to tease, but Xuanzang knew that would not be so.

He gulped and carried on, arm stinging anew.

“You’re the same,” the monk told him gravely.

Wukong raised a brow and said, “You’re still bald, so?”

“You haven’t changed at all.” Then, for emphasis, Xuanzang repeated it again. “Wukong,  you haven’t changed at all .”

The other disciples approached, equally perplexed at his grave tone, and from the corner of his eye, Xuanzang could see the rest of Moonfield gathering to see him speak.  Wukong, I-

Wukong: “What are you yapping-”

Smack!

And everything stopped.

The sound of wood froze over wood, feet dug into earth, and for a split second, there was nothing in the air but the first disciple’s angry breaths.

All eyes turned to Master and disciple, the monk’s left hand trembling in the air, still throbbing from the impact of stone-hard flesh upon its palm. Wukong stared to the side, head angled from the priest’s sudden blow as he remembered the splintering of a chair over his head- but that had been an act. This was not.

He turned his head back with a crack, and blood boiling, threw his hands onto the Tang priest’s robes. He lifted the monk up, to the gasps of the crowd around, and snarled, “ What the fuck is wrong with you? ”

Xuanzang dangled helplessly in his grip, feet swaying as he struggled for balance, but those deadset features showed no signs of remorse. He’d struck the monkey first and he intended to strike on.

Xuanzang: “You enjoy the bloodshed, don’t you!? All those demons you slaughtered, they could have been redeemed! Like Xiao San!”

“Like Xiao San?” Wukong mouthed, bringing the Master down just enough to glare him in the eye, “the fuck are you on?”

You would strike me over a demon?  He’d asked the priest once, though he knew it was just a script. There’d been no reason for Xuanzang to answer back then. But was he not a demon too?

“We could have saved them, if not for you! And it’s not just them- Duan, Xiao San, they’d all be here if it wasn’t for you! I- I wish I’d let you rot under that damned mountain!”

Duan. The monkey stared at his own hands, realizing they were trembling for the very first time- he was shaking and so was the man he held up. He’d wanted to drop Xuanzang, wanted to kick him for the wild accusations, wanted to repay that smack with a smack. But the desperation, the sheer tragedy in the monk’s eyes told him he could not. He never could.

And just like that, the monkey let go. Xuanzang fell with a noisy thud, groaning as he climbed back to his feet. Ao Lie was about to run towards him when Bajie grabbed him from behind. The pig and fish looked on, gazes locked on the scene at hand. Wukong stared at him then, genuinely confused, those eyes dampening with salt, but Xuanzang kept his face clear and spoke on.

“You don’t know the meaning of mercy. I was an idiot for thinking- for thinking-”

Wukong, I-

“For thinking you’d ever be anything but a heartless monster. You kill without blinking, you shed blood without a trace of remorse… it- it  sickens  me.”

“What do you want, an apology?” the monkey snapped, quiet and breathless.

Wukong, forgive me.

“No. I want you gone,” the priest said, cold, “there’s no room for you in our pilgrimage.”

He walked up to Wukong, towered over him by barely an inch, and all but spat out the next tumble of words: “You’re a murderer to the core and Buddha’s mercy is wasted on you. The very sight of you disgusts me and I order you to leave.”

Bajie: “Hold on, hold on! Master, surely we needn’t resort to this!”

Wujing: “What the fuck!?”

Wukong could only look at him, speechless, the monk’s eyes glaring into him. It was a look the monk that had never used on him, not even when he took Duan away with those very hands. He doubted what he heard, or perhaps he chose to doubt, because he’d always feared this would come. His hands balled into clenched fists, growing tight at Xuanzang’s onslaught of sharp words.

The Tang priest expected Wukong to strike out again. He braced himself for a blow to the head or chest, for Wukong to slam him onto the ground and threaten to chop his throat. Perhaps that was what he wanted. That would have made this easier, much easier than what was to come.

Wukong: “Master, please.”

Xuanzang jumped back, resolve wavering as the monkey got on all fours and kowtowed, head all but buried into the dirt.

“I promised to take you west,” the monkey said, “at least let me do that. Then I’ll be gone. You can hate me, fine. You’ve got every right. But let me stay with you, Master-”

“Wukong-”

Stop it! Stop it!  Xuanzang wanted to scream. He turned his back on the monkey, heels kicking dirt as he said, “Don’t beg me, demon! I already told you- just go.”

He made to walk away but he was stopped in his tracks by four voices in unison: “Master, wait!”

When he next looked, Wukong had boxed him in with three kowtowing clones, four of himself in total, each more apologetic than the next. There was no way out and heart pounding its way into oblivion, Xuanzang could only stare at the top of those four scraggly heads.*

“What are you trying!?” the monk cried, “These tricks won’t work on me!”

Why couldn’t he have fought back instead. He should have knocked the wind out of the monk, as he did in Rivermouth, should have beat him grey and blue, and walked out himself. He should have forced Xuanzang to choke those words back. He should have decided to hate the Tang priest, to truly hate him, then and there, to vow to leave him and never look back. But the monkey chose now to display his loyalty and never had the priest felt more undeserving, more lowly, more painstakingly lost and worn.

Sun Wukong would always be a thorn in his side, pricking and pricking until the monk broke and bled. He was falling apart like some dying lotus and he could not let anyone see, not here, not now. He couldn’t break here- he couldn’t- not with Zhenyuanzi’s warning pounding at his head.

Ao Lie: “Master, they were just devils! Who cares!?”

“Master, please,” Wukong said, lifting his head to plead once more.

He reached for the Tang priest, sheer desperation in that voice, looking at Xuanzang as if there was no one else, as if there would never be anyone else. Xuanzang lifted his hand, clutched the beads, and moved his lips, mouth drier than a desert itself as he spoke the last words.

“Bo-”

He couldn’t look into the monkey’s eyes. He thought of nothing else as he read those sounds for the very first time.

“Di-”

It was what he’d hoped to never use. It was Wukong’s flesh split open in Wuzhuang.

“Si-”

It was Wukong crumpled at the feet of Longevity Mountain.

“Wa-”

It was Wukong, bruised and still in Zhenyuanzi’s grip.

“-Ha.”*

And always, always bleeding out.

“Boss!”

“Big brother!”

The monkey fell, hitting the ground with a sharp- thud!- eyes popping twice their size as he lay shuddering. Wukong gasped, and gasped, trembling fingers rising to touch the band circling his head, as if struggling to believe what the Master had just done. The air was thunder around him, and he alone lay in a wrathful ocean, numb to all except the flames in his head.

He understood then. Tang Xuanzang had been sparing him all this time, and all this time, he had thought himself the merciful one. But no more. Whatever was between them, the monk no longer wanted, and as the pain faded from his head, the very core of his mind itself, the first disciple knew. The tears fell freely as he gasped, a thousand pricks of pain leaving at once.

Xuanzang kept his back turned, willing downcast eyes to stay dry. He heard Wukong crawl to his feet behind, silently rising as he near whispered, “I see. I see, Master.”

“I’m not your Master,” the monk said, angry and forceful, every bit of regret masked with rage.

“Fine. Chen Xuanzang, fine.”

They were broken whispers, gently spoken as the monkey brushed his eyes over with a knuckle.

“Take my last kowtow.”

There would be no fight now, not so much as a protest from the monkey. He kowtowed once more behind him. When Xuanzang next turned, nothing was left but Duan’s circlet on the ground. Wukong’s back was on him now, the monkey walking away on easy steps, a slight hunch in his gait, not even sparing a second glance.

Mouth shut in a tight line, Xuanzang watched him go, Ao Lie’s head whipping from priest to demon as he struggled to speak.

“Boss,” Bajie said, “don’t be like that, come on! We can discuss this!”

“What the fucking fuck!” Wujing said.

Friar Sand took a step forward and was promptly pulled back by the second disciple, the latter vehemently shaking his head. Angry at their indecision, the dragon ran after their eldest brother.

“Big brother, wait!” Ao Lie cried, rushing to the monkey’s side, “big brother, big brother, don’t just leave like this-”

Wukong slowed, pulled the prince into a half-hearted embrace, and said into his ear, “Bailong, take care of baldy, ya hear?”

“Big brother-”

Then Wukong left Ao Lie where he stood, walking past a crowd of gaping villagers as he headed for the fields, each onlooker parting to let him through, Wujing shouting for his return. And soon, even his footsteps faded into nothing, the once disciple’s back disappearing behind tall stalks. And then, no more.

Ao Lie ran back to Xuanzang, and wide-eyed with bafflement, said, “Master, why did you do that?”

“Xiao Bailong, that’s none of your concern,” the priest responded, eyes on the ground and none else.

“You didn’t have to humiliate him!” the dragon snapped, “you  still  hate him, don’t you!?”

“You can join him if you wish.”

Holding back a snarl, the prince yanked at Xuanzang’s good arm and forced himself into the Master’s view.

Ao Lie: “He’s injured. And you sent him away alone- you didn’t hear what those devils said about him! They’ll rip him apart out there!”

And ever stoic, the Tang priest replied, “They won’t attack him if he’s alone. Only if he’s by my side.”

Then he looked past Ao Lie, staring Wujing and Bajie straight in their faces as he said, “Don’t think I’ll send either of you out, you cowards. The rest of us go west and that’s final.”

Disappointment flashed by Bajie’s features, but the pig was quick to hide it with a nod and gulp. Beside him, Wujing broke a table clean in half, furious at the Master’s words before and then.

“Calm down there!” Bajie said, Wujing replying with a curt, “fuck off!”

While the two grappled, Ao Lie could only stare at Xuanzang, as did the rest of Moonfield, all unsure of what to say. The prince knew then that of everyone there, none ached more than Tang Sanzang.

“Did something bad happen?” Zhenyuan the Immortal asked, stepping out of the CRESCENT TIGER’S INN for the first time since Xuanzang’s return. Ao Lie looked at him and nodded once.

An eyeball rolled to the foot of that gilded throne, winds howling before the owner's cave, its mouth atop a cliff towering over roaring waves. The scorpion scuttered to the battered eye and prodded its shadows, the last remnant of the centipede’s spirit.

“Guess he failed! What do you think, your grace? Kill him here?”

Her lord chuckled from that throne, low and raw, manicured nails smoothing the ripples of his pale cape. Lids streaking red from lash to cheek, yellow eyes narrowed at the centipede’s remains.

“You came to me for vengeance,” he said, each word clear, “I let you into my good graces and how do you repay me? Acted on your own, got my minions killed, and worse yet, tried to take the Tang priest for yourself.”

He lifted a hand, spun those fingers, and watched in glee as the eyeball exploded in a blend of red.

“ His flesh is mine ,” he hissed, “and you’re not even worthy of cleaning my shoe.”

Chapter Text

Wujing helped Chieftess Liang slap carrots, rice, and fine-cooked goat into the bowls of all who passed his pot, the scent of meat and smoke fresh in his wrinkling nose. And the villagers were too hungry (and much too eager for a free-cooked supper) to care that their food had been prepared by a senile old woman and a hulking demon from out east. Since the death of the woodland devils, there was now a budding familiarity between Xuanzang’s band and the people of Moonfield, some unspoken acceptance that wasn’t quite friendship or the like. Wujing could have cared less either way, his mind a bubble of frustrations after the first disciple walked out.

He looked up at the strung lanterns, faded red glowing with firelight as they swung to and fro in the free night gusts. The effects of the Tang priest’s afternoon episode had yet to fade, and Wujing was sure the incident would be the talk of town for the rest of the evening for more suppers down.

“Demon, this turnip is undercooked,” Officer Yi said, frowning up at the fish, chopsticks tapping along the edge of his wooden bowl.

“Like hell it is,” Wujing growled back.

“Look at it!” Yi shoved the bowl upwards, that offensive turnip ripe and cracked above his leftover rice.

At this, Friar Sand only had one answer: he dashed out one blue palm and- whack!- slapped the bowl of out Yi’s shocked hands, food splattering across dirt in a smash of grains and greens. The officer’s chopsticks followed suit, and in an instant, Yi hopped up, ready to climb over the pot as he cried out, “You heathen! I could have you arrested, you-”

Bajie interceded, then, caught in between as Yi and Wujing exchanged back-and-forth blows, until his chiseled face was rendered pink and red from slap over slap.

“Oy, oy!” the pig said, “stop hitting my handsome mug!”

Wujing punched him straight in the eye and the second disciple fell back, crashing into Yi as they both tumbled onto the ground.

Wujing: “Fuck you!”

Chieftess Liang laughed from the nearest table, a spoon of noodles pressed to her lips, free hand waving the fan beneath her neck. Beside her, Liang Guo shook his head in disapproval, elbows propped up and scowl apparent. And sitting to his left, the dragon prince watched his brothers rumble, pale face blank.

Their antics did nothing to faze him, and Ao Lie knew well why- he looked past the quarreling trio and their laughing audience, gaze stopping at the gleaming scalp in the distance. Xuanzang sat on a wooden stool at the square’s edge, back turned to the feast, bald head shining under pink moonlight. He appeared to be looking into the distance, but at what, the prince couldn’t tell.

Ao Lie considered approaching the Master, but he knew already that the monk would not reply, regardless of what he said. So the prince turned away, instead looking to the fields, now washed violet under the final night of the blood moon. He wondered how far Wukong had gone, the words, one-hundred eight-thousand li suddenly sharp and heavy to say. The monkey could have sailed all the way to the western paradise by then, or perhaps returned to Mount Huaguo, or maybe he’d decided to say “fuck it” and gone somewhere that could never be found.

He’d gone some place where no one would hurt him again, and that might have been for the best. Ao Lie said this to himself and as the tears pricked at his eyes, knew he didn’t believe a single word in that thought.

“Tonight ends the blood moon cycle,” a low voice said, calm and regal.

Jolted, Ao Lie glanced left, just now noticing Zhenyuan the Immortal, the patriarch having taken a seat beside him, a cask of plum wine in his hands. And it was then that Ao Lie realized he had never actually spoken to the immortal on his own.

“P- patriarch,” he addressed, cursing himself for the shocked stutter.

“You’re Ao Run’s third son, correct?” Zhenyuanzi asked, tipping the cask into his mouth as he stared at the prince from the corners of his eyes.

“I am, Ao Lie of the-”

“You stole my ginsengfruit.”

The dragon’s feet shifted, ready to burst and escape should the patriarch pursue revenge, because truth be told, he’d completely forgotten about that theft. Somehow, I had a good reason didn’t seem to be the best answer. But all the patriarch did was offer him that cask of wine.

“You look scared out of your wits, boy. I’m not a spiteful individual,” Zhenyuanzi said, “come, I should be like a wise uncle to you.”

“Um…”

“I’m so close to your eldest brother, after all.”

“ Um …”

“Ah, forgive me. I meant to say, Sun Wukong.” The patriarch sighed while he passed the wine into Ao Lie’s hands. “Master Sanzang cut ties with him, I’d forgotten. Tell me, how is your Master taking it?”

Holy men were forbidden from drinking copious amounts of wine, but on this night, it was exactly what Ao Lie needed. He downed half the cask in one gulp, set the drink down, and said, eyes again falling on the Tang priest’s head, “I don’t know. He’s in pain, but I doubt he regrets it- Master, he has a hard time letting go.”

Zhenyuanzi nodded, contemplating, and said, “Like any mortal, then.”

“Nothing wrong with being mortal, you know,” Liang Guo interjected, voice so sudden that the heads of dragon and immortal snapped towards him as soon as he spoke.

The chieftess had fallen asleep by then, wrinkled cheeks flushed pink as she snored along her son’s broad shoulder. Liang Guo smoothed her silver hair and said, soft, “Nothing wrong with being like my mother. You love, you age, you die- but ain’t that the whole point of being mortal?”

Zhenyuanzi stroked that beard, regarding the younger Liang’s words with understanding, and replied, “I suppose. It’s been too long for me.”

Ao Lie scanned the tables around him- the leftover food, the stained chopsticks, the laughing villagers, and the flowers left by big brother, bright and lovely under those lined lanterns. The air smelled of petals, plum, and ending summer, a distinct sorrow cast in that red-black sky. And it told them this would all end in one child’s blink. Then Ao Lie admitted, he did not want this to end.

He placed a finger behind his ear, where he’d tucked the first disciple’s cornflower, as if the act alone would bring the monkey back.

Xuanzang ignored the celebration behind him, opting instead to stare blankly at the fields ahead, trying and failing to repeat mantras in his mind. He felt as empty as a dried pail, and still, knew he was drowning in thoughts best hidden. He ran his left hand over the bandaged arm, fingers pausing at the sling- he’d once overheard Wukong talking about snapping his arm in half. How much of it was in jest, and how much in truth, he’d never know, but he assumed there had been a bit of both.

But Wukong was gone now, and if fate was kind, the demon would stay gone.

And yet the monk was unable to congratulate himself on having saved his disciple’s life. Hurting the monkey was the last thing he’d wanted to do, but he might as well have driven a dagger into Wukong’s gut and twisted it for good measure. Wukong had gone through enough pain for his sake, and Xuanzang had dug the wound still deeper.

The priest pressed the hand to his chest, as if the heart within was clenching of its own accord. This was an unfamiliar pain, something not unlike the hole that Duan left, and entirely different on its own. And the worst part was he knew exactly why it ached so.

“Master Sanzang, mind if we chat?”

Without acknowledging that voice, Xuanzang nodded, ears soon filled with the rustling of robes as Zhenyuanzi took a seat beside him, the immortal smelling of smoked meat and liquid plum.

“Do you resent me?” the patriarch asked, a simple question.

Did he? Would he have cast the monkey away if not for the immortal’s warning? Would he have let Wukong die if they were left on their own? Would it even have occurred to him that he was the root of his disciple’s pain?

“I wish I could,” Xuanzang answered.

He smiled. “Patriarch, forgive me. I know you mean well, and I do thank you. But I had no idea… that it’d hurt so much.” Or at all .

Zhenyuanzi put a sympathetic hand on his back, running fingers up and down the monk’s spine like a father to his ward. “Neither did I, Master Sanzang. I thought you’d part more civilly than that, but you do know him best.”

Xuanzang sighed and let his head fall on the patriarch’s shoulder, giving in to the allure of his grandfatherly touch. For a moment, he was Jiang Liu again and Master Fa Ming was soothing his night terrors with a gentle reprimand.  

“Really? That ape’s gone a day and you’re canoodling with an old geezer,  Tang-Tang?”

Xuanzang and Zhenyuanzi pulled apart, the moment ruined by a familiar sharp and irritating tongue. Jiu Gong stood before them, a teasing glint in her eyes, a look that said she only said such irksome words because she could.

“Such coarse words!” the patriarch snapped, “it’s called ‘fatherly’ comfort, a task that I’m rather good at!”

Jiu Gong: “Ooh, a daddy kink.”

“Minister, kindly shut up!” Xuanzang said, “what happens between the patriarch and I is none of your business, and for the record, I have no kinks because I’m pure of heart!”

“Oh please, you wanted to fuck Xiao San at first sight. And let’s not get started on everything you’ve done to that monkey.”

Zhenyuanzi: “What language! You base vulture, what business have you here-”

Jiu Gong: “I should be asking you that, geezer! Advising Tang-Tang is my job.”

And a fat lot of advising you’ve done , Xuanzang thought bitterly. As the minister and patriarch bickered on, he buried his face within his lap and prayed that they would fall silent soon. And he couldn’t help but think that if Wukong had been there, the monkey would have snickered, a nasty little laugh that Xuanzang now admitted he’d always found just a tad endearing under its ugly, ugly sound.

Bajie went to bed sporting two black eyes, with no small thanks to his unhelpful third brother and that pest of an officer. After removing his outer robes, the second disciple allowed his pig’s form a moment of well-earned respite. Then he crumpled over the bed for two and sighed, low and earnest. Damned fish .

He half expected Wukong to burst through the door, kick him off the bed, and call him an asshole. But that was force of habit- the monkey wasn’t coming back and by all rights, he was the first disciple now.

“Eldest brother,” he said to himself, the words foreign and odd, “Zhu Bajie.”

And with “eldest brother” came all its responsibilities and chores- was he now expected to save the priest at every turn? Put up with the Master’s crop? Stand front and center, and take the worst of every blow? Simply thinking of such things gave him a sow’s headache. He tried to flip on his side, and when that failed, sighed again.

But it was easier now that the boss was gone. At least now, he wouldn’t have to-

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?” Wujing demanded, popping through the door with a glower fixed on that bed.

“The floor, asshole. Don’t bother me- I’m very tired, you see.”

“Asshole!”

With that, Wujing huffed and toppled over Bajie, thrusting all seven feet of weight into the pig’s prone form. Crying aloud, Bajie twisted and pushed the fish off, but Friar Sand stayed rooted, determined to take his rightful place.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Bajie said, “who does this!?”

“I’m in a bad mood, don’t push me!”

“You’re in a bad mood? So I’m not in a bad mood? Have you no shame!?”

“Fuck no!”

They squirmed and grappled through the night, fighting on and on for the first time unending, because now there was no monkey to pry them apart.

And below, Xuanzang and Ao Lie sat in the parlor of the WANING LION’S INN, the youngest Sun cradled between them, giggling at the thuds and thumps from above.

“Those two are at it again,” the monk muttered, “Xiao Bailong-”

“Master, I’m not going up there.”

Seeing that there was no swaying the dragon, Xuanzang looked back to the babe, its tiny fingers curled over his own. He could see Yachi in its tender features, and a bit of Sun’s simplicity in those small eyes. It was a good countenance, an innocent one Xuanzang hoped the babe would never lose, that it would only weather with age and laughter, and never pain. Amitabha , he thought as he looked upon its smile, amitabha .

“Master Sanzang.”

Xuanzang turned at the voice, momentarily surprised to see the innkeeper entering without his wife by his side. Fresh bathed and robes changed, Sun appeared a new man in the floating night. He was lankier than Xuanzang remembered, taller now that his demons were at rest, and weary all the same. The man crouched before his son, nose pointed and cheekbones high, traces of a goatee on his clean chin.

In that moment, Sun was no longer the troublesome face to a man. He was finally flesh and blood to the Tang priest. Xuanzang was struck then, by an awareness in his mind- had he been so lost that the existence of another human being should shock him so? Sun and Yachi were as real as himself and his.

“I never got to thank you,” Sun said, “for saving my life.”

Then it occurred to Xuanzang that he never even asked for the man’s name. It reminded him of everything he’d never asked her . The image of Duan flashed before his mind, and with her, the image of Wukong. And chest tight, the Tang priest met Sun’s eyes.

Xuanzang: “I only did what’s right. Master Sun, tell this holy one your name.”

“You don’t know?” Sun pried his eyes from the babe, a touch of embarrassment on his sharp nose. “Thought I’d told you. Sun Hong.”

“And I’m-”

The innkeeper chuckled. “The whole village knows, Master Sanzang.”

“Well, my incredible humility can only go such a long way,” the monk replied.

Ao Lie: “Master, that was the opposite of humble.”

Xuanzang: “Xiao Bailong, are you the high priest or am I?”

“You are.”

“That’s correct.”

Sun Hong picked up his son, the babe’s fingers clinging to Xuanzang’s beads as the priest hunched over to fit its tight grip.

“Darling, let go of the holy man,” Sun Hong coaxed, though all his voice did was make the babe’s grasp firmer.

Uncomfortably bent for fear of making the babe cry, Xuanzang sighed and looked to Ao Lie for help. The prince approached, hands making to remove the young Sun’s own, only for the babe’s attention to switch from bead to hair. And soon, Ao Lie was yelping for freedom as the babe latched onto his left horn, giggling all the while.

“Let go of the demon, darling!” Sun Hong said.

Ao Lie: “Are you kidding!? I am a dragon, third heir of the western-”

Xuanzang shushed him. “Xiao Bailong, there are people sleeping.”

In the midst of trying to pry his son off the fourth disciple, Sun Hong told the two, “I know it hasn’t been the best of visits, but we do thank you for staying the night. Yachi says you’d planned to leave today.”

“That had been my plan.” Xuanzang’s eyes drifted to the ceiling with vague disapproval. “But my other disciples are dead asleep now.”

Sun Hong: “That’s good. More rest for you- I imagine you all have quite a way ahead. We’ll be sorry to see you go.”

Ao Lie finally wriggled free, infant digits slipping from his horn as he stepped back and twisted behind the Master’s high shoulder, a healthy length from Sun and son.

Xuanzang: “As will we.”

In the morning, Yang Yachi and her husband saw the pilgrims off, the Liangs beside, along with what little villagers had managed to wake up. A vulture watched them from afar, perched above a gnarled branch, the Immortal Zhenyuan standing at Moonfield’s edge.

“Good luck, Master Sanzang,” Yachi said in parting, arms tight around the monk as Xuanzang hugged back. “And-”

Here, she paused, breath low as she said into his ear, so soft that even Bajie couldn’t hear, “If Elder Sun comes back, let him- you’ll hate yourself otherwise.”

“Bodhisattva-”

But Yachi had stepped away already, a knowing smile on her lips, sad and understanding, as if she’d stood in his very spot and made every wrong choice in his stead. Sun Hong passed the babe back into Yachi’s arms and bowed, top-knot gleaming against the pecks of rising sun.

Xuanzang bowed back, left hand clasped against an invisible right. He wanted to say more, an apology on his tongue, for he was sorry, so very sorry. To who and for what, he knew no longer.

“Are you leaving or not?” Officer Yi grumbled from his place behind Chieftess Liang.

Wujing tightened his grip on the wagon’s handles and said, “Nobody asked you to come, asshole!”

“I can go wherever I like!”

Between Wujing’s wagon and Bajie’s rake, the pony huffed in annoyance, coal blue eyes rolling up. Ao Lie tapped one hoof, waiting for Xuanzang to finish his goodbyes and return to his saddle.

“I’ll miss you demons!” Chieftess Liang laughed with a slap to her thigh, still tipsy from the night before.

“And we shall miss you too, Lady Liang,” Bajie replied with flare, throwing the rake over his shoulders as he came to kowtow at the chieftess’ feet. “I will forever cherish our time together!”

Liang Guo: “Back off, demon.”

Bajie: “Of course, of course!”

Xuanzang turned to the chieftess as well and did his best kowtow, sling shifting uncomfortably as his arm slid against cloth. “Thank you, Chieftess, for your mercy and hospitality. This holy one will never forget your kindness. If there’s any way we can repay you-”

Chieftess Liang: “Fuck me.”

“Pardon?”

Then the old woman cackled again, delighted at the blush spreading across Xuanzang’s face. “Just kidding! Here, holy man-” She pointed at a wrinkled cheek, “a kiss for a kiss.”

This, Xuanzang could do. Relieved, he bent down and placed a peck on the elder Liang’s cheekbone. She held him in place and kissed his cheek, wet and warm and motherly. Watching, Bajie twirled his weapon’s handle, a hint of envy in his masked face.

Liang Guo took Xuanzang aside, Chieftess Liang leading the party behind them into another bout of merry laughter. The younger Liang shook his head with a grumpy sigh.

“She’s drunk- you’ll have to forgive my mother, holy man.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I guess I misjudged you lot,” Liang Guo said, the reluctance clear in his gruff tone, “Tang monk, you’re a good man.”

Before Xuanzang could thank him, Liang Guo’s gaze briefly flickered to Bajie.

Liang Guo: “Almost misjudged you, anyway.”

It was as close to a compliment as they would get from the man, and that itself was good enough for Xuanzang.

“Amitabha,” he said with a bow, “and I thank you too, Master Liang, for everything.”

Then, seeing that Yachi was busy laughing at whatever Chieftess Liang had just said at Yi’s expense, Xuanzang went on and said, “Master Liang, I don’t know if my disciples and I will ever return. So I must ask now- do you have a loved one?”

“Gossipy for a holy man.” But Liang Guo understood the sentiment behind, so he nodded and said, in that near grunt, “I do. You know who.”

Yang Yachi.

“Even if she loves another?”

“She told you, didn’t she?”

Xuanzang said nothing, the silence enough to answer Liang Guo’s question, a question he already knew to the answer to. The acceptance in Liang Guo’s words told him more than enough, the apathy he had for Sun Hong, the soft light in his eyes when that bodhisattva was near- all this was enough for Xuanzang. Liang Guo knew who she loved. He knew, and he did not care, and he loved her all the more.

“Lu Yuqing,” Liang Guo said, the name coming out like a prayer, “her name, the first Madame Sun.”

Lu Yuqing, the only one Yang Yachi had and ever would want. But she’d loved Sun Hong. And Liang Guo loved her- he’d loved Lee Yu Qing not because he loved her, but because Yachi had- he’d loved her for her . It was a wordless sacrifice, one Xuanzang doubted Yachi would ever know, but heavy all the same and marveling in the end.

“She loves Lu Yuqing,” the monk said, “but you’ll love them regardless. Master Liang, your love, I admire.”

“And what would a monk know.” Liang Guo scratched his beard, uncharacteristically self-conscious, and said, “So why’d you want to know, elder? You want to leave me with some advice?”

Xuanzang clumsily pulled the straw hat over his scalp and shook his head, a weary smile gracing his lips. “No, I was hoping you’d leave me with some, Master Liang.”

“Won’t matter if I could. Your lot’s all about ‘letting go,’ right?”

“That’s what I’d thought.”

Xuanzang bowed to him once more and turned back to his disciples. With Wujing’s help, he climbed onto Ao Lie’s back, and in the missing disciple’s place, Zhenyuanzi came to take the reins.

“Remember,” the patriarch said to the villagers present, “my banquet is open to all, but for now, I bid you farewell!”

And just like that, all of Moonfield gathered to send him off, cheering and sobbing as if they’d celebrated ten new years in one.

“I feel like there’s some favoritism going on here,” Bajie muttered against the gathering crowd, villagers shoving past his party to kiss the hem of Zhenyuanzi’s robes.

Wujing: “Assholes.”

Tang Sanzang and his pilgrims left at the crack of dawn, the priest himself atop his silk white horse, flanked by the second disciple with his nine-toothed rake, and the third disciple gathered behind, spade in hand, and wagon in tow.

In the days that followed, the Master’s mood grew ever worse, and Ao Lie was sure the road west would be all but paved with holy scoldings and dark-browed glares. Xuanzang forced the disciples to recite Tathagata’s teachings should the need arise, and as of late, the “need” was every ten minutes. Ao Lie had counted the little things that set their Master off: Wujing’s rude laughter, Bajie’s pretentious poems, the dragon’s complete lack of interest in his parables, and so on.

And more often than not, Xuanzang’s frustration did not come from his fellow pilgrims at all. Jiu Gong had accompanied them, much too merry for everyone’s comfort, and insisted on helping with every little thing. That is, if helping meant sabotaging, because Ao Lie was quite sure she dumped too much salt into Wujing’s congee out of spite, that she dropped a pan on Xuanzang’s foot because she could, and that she used some spell to make her night snores louder. She’d been determined to make the pilgrims’ lives hell, and as far as Ao Lie could tell, she had succeeded.

Zhenyuan the Immortal was a slightly more pleasant companion, though the vulture tested his manners and he somehow felt it his right to lecture the disciples in their Master’s stead. He’d critiqued their postures, awoken them before the light of dawn, and shamelessly eaten roast beef as the rest of them crowded around rotten greens and sticky rice. If Xuanzang had been annoying, then Zhenyuanzi was unbearable.

And he did not get along with the former minister one bit- they bickered from dusk to dawn over the color of dirt and the direction north. Between their arguing and the disciples’ own spats, it was little wonder that the Tang priest lashed out at his three students with every bump of mood.

“Baldy’s a real hypocrite,” Bajie told them one night, exactly nine after they’d left Moonfield, “he tells us to love each other, but look at him.”

Across the campfire, Wujing flicked a gaze over to where the monk sat, out of earshot and atop a dry boulder. He appeared to be meditating, but Ao Lie suspected “brooding” was the more accurate term.

Bajie: “He’s been nothing but a bully these past days.”

“A real asshole,” Wujing grumbled.

“So what do we do?” Ao Lie asked.

“How should I know?” the pig said, “wait for him to feel better. But honestly, not like it’s our fault he’s heartbroken.”

Wujing: “Maybe if we got the boss-”

Bajie: “We talked about this. That’s not an option.”

They tried not to speak of the boss as often as they could. The word left a pang in Ao Lie, as if the first disciple was dead and to speak of him after was to slander his grave. He wondered if the others felt the same, but he had no desire to pry. This, he wanted no more part of.

Instead, the prince said, “You’re eldest brother now. You should know what to do.”

Bajie glared at him. “I’m under a lot of pressure- I have a lot more to do than be a baby horse, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?”

Ao Lie surged forward, ready to claw out the pig’s eyes, when Wujing blocked his path and wrestled him to the ground. They squirmed and growled as they fought, wiping dust and grass with angry backs. Amused and irritated, Bajie looked on, too lazy to intervene and rather hopeful that the fish would get rid of Ao Lie then and there.

Xuanzang: “You’re hopeless.”

The three disciples froze and looked up, the Tang priest having stood up, cold eyes locked on their heads from above. There was a spiteful edge to his tone, strangely mean and empty.

“You’re worse than babies,” he continued, “how can you achieve enlightenment that way? Have you any idea how much shame this brings me, as your Master?”

Ao Lie: “But he started it-”

“I don’t care! Clean up your acts and go to sleep. Now I have to pray for your stained souls.”

The monk turned around and returned to his perch on the rock, head lowered in dark thought. The disciples broke apart and after casting each other a final glare, turned on their backs and faced away. Bajie watched Wujing drop like a corpse in sleep and Ao Lie curl his limbs in. Then, pushing leaves over himself, the pig gazed past the Tang priest, at the vulture and Zhenyuan behind the nearest tree.

“Who spends more than a thousand years on some shitty fruit?” Jiu Gong was asking, riled at the flare in Zhenyuanzi’s nose.

“ Those are the fruits of true immortals. Apologize right now.”

“Or what, geezer?”

“You have no idea!”

And so on. Bored, Bajie shut his eyes, quite sure neither Jiu Gong or Zhenyuanzi needed sleep. They’d stay long enough for the Master’s arm to heal, and then be on their way, hopefully forever. The thought was enough to push a smile over the pig’s lips.

He hadn’t seen her in a long time-- Duan. Xuanzang approached on silent footsteps, her messy hair blowing under moonlight breeze. She turned to him, wrapped in clear white fabric, a trace of blue cloth hanging past, and grinned.

“I missed you,” she said.

“Me too.”

She danced around him, breaths light against his skin, as he tried to touch her, hands meeting air instead. She was teasing him. And the ocean surrounded them, waves rustling around soft sands.

“Miss Duan,” he said, “what would you do?”

“What kind of question’s that supposed to be?”

She laughed in his face. Then she put her head against his shoulder, and said, “I’d do whatever I want. I’m not some weakling like you.”

“But I’m your weakling.”

“That’s right.”

He embraced her, trying to memorize the texture of her skin, the cloth on her body, the shine in her hair- he hadn’t seen her in so long. He hadn’t dreamt. And he hadn’t thought. He’d been thinking of someone else. And it plagued him then, a terrible, terrible guilt he knew he could not brush away.

She walked out of his grip and turned, enough to extend a moonlit hand. Around her wrist was the golden circlet, familiar and stinging as it dangled. He touched it, gently folding his fingers around hers.

“If I went into the ocean, would you follow?” she asked, tilting up to meet his eyes.

“I’d go anywhere for you.”

“And what if he followed you?”

He?

“I-”

He?

“I don’t understand.”

Him .

“If it were me and him, who would you save?”

Him . But who could swim? Couldn’t she? Couldn’t he? Then Xuanzang would not have to pick. Except one had long since drowned, and the other had not, and even in his dreams, he knew this was the bitter truth.

“I’d send Wujing and Xiao Bailong to save you,” he blurted, “they’re good at swimming.”

He was very proud of his answer. It was a smart answer.

But Duan only said, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard… Tang-Tang.”

Tang-Tang? And then, he was face-to-face with minister Jiu Gong.

Xuanzang sat up with a groan, the vulture grinning as she watched him wake. He hurriedly padded at the corners of his mouth, hoping that no drool had escaped, and looked past the leftover smoke of their campfire from the night before. Zhenyuanzi was sitting by Ao Lie on a log, munching on fresh lamb leg as the disciples looked on in envy.

“You’re cute in your sleep,” Jiu Gong said.

“Minister, you scared me.”

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Then she leaned in, grin wide. “So, who was it? Were you dreaming about that woman?”

“Her name is Duan,” he snapped, “now please, leave me be.”

He got up, bandaged arm aching as he stood on ruffled robes, and lifted a hand to smooth his bald head. Xuanzang strolled towards the rest of their band, passing in time to hear Ao Lie ask the patriarch, “Can we have some?”

Sensing the Master’s approach, Bajie wiped his own mouth and said, “How dare you say such a thing, little brother!? Us holy men should never dream of such a thing!”

Xuanzang shot them all a glare and said no more, save: “Finish your congee. We leave at noon.”

“We’re lost, vulture!” Zhenyuanzi said, “I foresaw this outcome the moment you took the reins!”

“Oh shut up, you geezer!”

Jiu Gong threw the reins aside, Ao Lie nearly tripping as she stomped away from the pony. On his saddle, Xuanzang sighed, squinting his eyes at the night sky- they were indeed unsure of where to go next, and he only hoped they were still on the course west. All around were bamboos and high trunks, each step steeper than the last.

“What, you got us lost, asshole!?” Wujing cried as he lugged the wagon forward.

Jiu Gong: “Oh sure, blame the pretty one!”

“Wait, wait,” Bajie said, “I’m Marshal Tianpeng! I’ll just look at the stars and find a way out of these woods!”

“Or we could ask him,” Wujing said, pointing at a passing rider.

Bajie: “Thank you for ruining my heroic moment.”

“You’re welcome.”

Xuanzang hailed the new horse and its master, both blots in the dark, and said, “Good sir! We’re a band of holy men on our way to the western paradise- have you any idea where we are?”

The horse stopped as the figure atop stayed it, and when they approached, Xuanzang could see that the newcomer was bundled from head to toe in fabrics grey and black. The figure lifted a gloved hand and pulled the cloth from his face. Xuanzang felt a hitch in his breath- such features he had not seen since the blurry days of childhood, when that stranger from the silk road had passed him by.*

It was a man that stopped before them, his eyes--brown at a glance--a striking green, skin toned olive, curls of dark hair atop his head. A trader from Hu.*      

“Hello,” he said, his language spaced and peppered with accent, “you are in the border of Huang Tian, the Kingdom of the Yellow Sky. Keep going straight and you should come to it.”

“Thank you, venerable sir.”

The trader nodded and prepared to move on, before thinking better of it and turning back, “Wait, holy man. The festival of the Lion is tonight. I left in time to avoid it. If you go now, I do not know how long you will be stuck.”

“Ohh, a festival!” Jiu Gong said, “Tang-Tang, we’ve got to go!”

Flashbacks of Biqu and its parade of balloons came to mind. Bajie pursed his lips and said, calmly, “Master, local celebrations tend to bring us nothing but trouble.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Yes, I feel like your party’s been to every celebration except my-”

Jiu Gong: “You’re still on about that banquet, geezer?”

The argument started again, and distracted, the trader looked back to Xuanzang, just now catching sight of his disciples. Taken aback, he blanched at Wujing’s complexion and stammered, “Mas- masakh-”

Xuanzang: “Pardon? I’m afraid I don’t understand-”

“Your servant looks very… strange,” the trader said, recollecting his wits.

“Say that to my face!” Wujing snapped back.

“Please excuse him,” Xuanzang mumbled, leading Ao Lie to stand in front of Wujing, “my disciple is… odd, but he’s a student of the Buddhist way.”

Backing his horse away, the trader nodded and said, “I should be going now. Fortune be with you, elder.”

Before Xuanzang could repay his parting, the foreigner had turned and galloped off, no inclination to stay any longer in Wujing’s presence.

“There you go again, scaring everyone off,” Bajie chastised.

In turn the fish said to him, “ You're the one that looks strange!”

“Neither of you look strange to me,” Xuanzang interjected, “now let’s follow his directions and go on. Patriarch, please lead the way.”

Zhenyuanzi: “With pleasure. Now, young vulture, you’ll see how it’s done.”

Jiu Gong scoffed as the patriarch puffed his chest and took his place at the front of their band, sleeve folded over sleeve. Nose twitching in disdain, she followed, and not far behind, the Tang priest pushed his pony forward.

Behind, Bajie turned to Wujing and muttered, “That gentleman was rather strapping. Reminds me- I’ve seen Hu tribes that look a little like the brat over there-”*

He bobbed his head in the direction of Ao Lie’s tail. “Real blue eyes, yellow hair, and almost as tall as you to boot. Funny, how mortals can look so different from one place to the next, all a matter of perspective really.”

Wujing: “Are you saying I look funny!?”

Bajie: “There you go again, putting words in my mouth! Do you ever listen to other people!?”

“Asshole!”

“You’re the asshole here!”

Ahead, Ao Lie neighed, exasperated at the conversation behind him, for it started from nothing and went to nothing. But Xuanzang paid it no mind.

The western trader had not lied, and his warning fell true, for the Kingdom of the Yellow Sky was indeed in the midst of their grandest festival. There had been no office to collect their passports when the pilgrims entered, and Xuanzang could only assume even their civil servants were making merry into the night. They arrived to the sight of flying lanterns the size of boulders, paper lions paving the streets, and singing dancers all about. Jiu Gong’s eyes had widened, eager as a child to join in Huang Tian’s celebrations.

Bajie walked past the vulture, no cares left for his Master when he caught sight of those dancers atop their parade floats. They were beautiful tapestries of skin and fabric and batting lashes-- and then- drip!- the pig slobbered on. Men and women in golden cloths marched behind, hair held back by pins and bands, as they beat their large hide drums. And at their heels were grinning acrobats, spinning and spitting fire with every flip.

Red banners snaked through the crowded streets, BLESS THE LION painted across in fresh, black strokes. A far cry from the rural town of Moonfield Village, Huang Tian was a kingdom nearly on par with Chang ‘An. Its people danced and laughed under a sky of glowing lights, banners swishing left and right, and rooftops splashing color with each burst of flying firecracker. Merchants and peddlers swarmed the streets, selling cloths and meats and silver hair pins.*

But Ao Lie could not see any of this as he clopped through the crowd, blocked by all shades of hat and hair and skin, top knots and turbans, full heads of black and brown (and every now and then, a speck of silver or gold). He heard the crowd against mandolin strings, erhu, and drum. And all around was yellow, red, and the warmest fires. But enough was enough.

So as Wujing dragged the wagon past Xuanzang’s steed, not catching a single eye from the citizens around, Ao Lie huffed and knelt, scrunching in until he was once more in human shape. For his part, the Tang priest unceremoniously slipped off.

The monk stood, dusted himself, and shot Ao Lie a cool glare. But nothing more left his lips.

“Where’d Zhenyuan go?” Wujing said.

Ao Lie: “What?!”

“Where’d Zhenyuan go!?”

“I can’t hear you!”

Giving up, Wujing pushed his wagon forward, knocking Bajie onto it as the parade passed them by. They’d lost Zhenyuanzi and Jiu Gong somewhere along the line, though Wujing suspected it was the duo that’d lost them instead. The festival, for all its shallow spectacle, reminded him of a day centuries ago, high in heaven. He’d been standing in a world much like this, a jade bowl in his shaking hands…

“Now this is more like it,” Ao Lie said, shoving past the third disciple, rather unnerved by the fish’s spacey look, “this is closer to the feasts of the western sea!”

Then he laughed, boyish and bright, dazzled by all that was happening. And he couldn’t help but imagine that monkey rolling his eyes. Xuanzang walked beside him, absently blending in with the crowd, the high priest’s hat now atop his head, flags trailing flat behind his back.

“Master, wait!”

Ao Lie ran towards him, bumped back by passing shoulders and opposing steps. Xuanzang heard the dragon call, but did not stop. One hand touched the beads along his chest as he made his way forward, only once pausing to stare at a pool of swimming koi. Their vendor reached for him, and Xuanzang walked on, a group of children rushing to gather before those fish.

Everything was glowing and rich, as if all the brightness and cheer in the world had been poured into this one night. But the monk could feel none of it, save a hollowness that told him this was all fake. And yet, he knew this was no illusion, and the glee of Huang Tian’s citizens was enough for him to see.

“Master!” the dragon’s muffled cry rang.

Duan would have been as excited as Jiu Gong had she been there, and the thought of her moonlit face set his chest afire once more. She’d asked him who he would save, and he had refused to answer in that dream. But he knew.

In that moment, he knew the answer clear. But he’d refused to say- to tell her would mean he had let go. And he did not want to let go of her. He thought of her warm skin, her loose hair, the feel of her plush lips- they would all be gone should he admit the truth.

Xuanzang had moved on, when he did not know, and it was a deep, angry betrayal he did not want her to know. A broad shoulder clipped him, and the monk stepped back, bumping into another spine along the way.

And- crack!- a firework burst.

He felt himself drop, balance lost.

If he’d ever been lost, Sun Wukong would find him, pull him up by the collar and shield him from harm. He’d do it with a rude laugh and a bloodthirsty glare. And he would not leave. For Xuanzang would fall into that spiral again, and Wukong would pull him out. Even should the Tang priest push him away, bind his limbs, lash his skin- even after every bitter word and hit, Wukong would stay and take each blow.

Then Wukong would deliver a blow for each blow, and leave Xuanzang wondering just who had stayed for who. His palm scratched the pavement, knee scraped as he plunged down. But Wukong was gone. He’d sent him off.

A sturdy hand caught his right elbow before the rest of him could hit the ground, fingers gentle as they propped his limb. Xuanzang caught his breath, and in that instant, heard a whisper, clearer than all the noise around:

“Venerable elder, be careful.”

Xuanzang turned his head, in time to catch a glimpse of covered top knot and a peddler’s backside. But when he opened his mouth, the stranger was gone, melted into the crowd, one dark head among many more. And he was lost once more.

“Master!” he heard in the distance.

His gaze fell to his left hand, fingers digging into the solid ground, shaking body refusing to inch one muscle. Another burst of color painted the night sky, drips of pink and green dotting his nose.

The Great Sage Equaling Heaven had seventy-two transformations. Seventy-two shapes to bend and use at will. He could take the form of anything he wanted, anything at all, and should he never want to be found, disappear for good. And Xuanzang would never again find him among the mortal realm.

Wukong was gone.

“Master!” Ao Lie said, out of breath as he dropped by the Tang priest’s side, “are you alright?”

Xuanzang stayed huddled on the ground, and fearing that the man would be trampled by the drunken throngs, Ao Lie pulled himself closer to the Tang priest and put a hand on his sleeve. And as he looked close into the monk’s face, he felt his throat clench.

Tears rolled down the man’s high cheekbones, drip by drip as they hit his prone hand.

Ao Lie: “Master…”

Xuanzang shook his head, the slightest of movements as his vision blurred.

Wukong was gone. And he was not coming back.

Chapter Text

His shoulder blades ached, twice, perhaps thrice more so than they had past. Wukong heaved, breath catching as he landed on a knee, one leg propped and the other flat. He snatched a half-snapped twig from the grass, held it to his lips, and let his teeth clench over. The grass was dry under him, soft and old, and worn from traveler’s feet. In front, a river flowed by, waters calm, hypnotic, as if daring him off the bank. It was a welcome change of scene; because for miles on end, there had been nothing but green and wood.

The water ran blue, glistening with clouds and morning sky, for the last day of the Blood Moon Cycle had long passed and the fields of that village were gone for good. They were gone for good, and now that nobody was around to witness it, the monkey admitted he didn’t care for the sudden silence. They’d always been fighting, and when they weren’t, they’d still be. But somewhere there, he’d gotten used to the noise, the bickering, the presence of the road west.

He’d always complained about their band- Ao Lie was a sniveling brat, Wujing a dense fish, Bajie a lustful idiot, and Xuanzang a frail simpleton of a man. But those words rang hollow now, and he knew he’d never really believed a word (though he did think Bajie a fool). He had never found Xuanzang weak. He never thought Wujing that dense, or Bajie that useless. And perhaps he’d been fond of Ao Lie from the very start.

In the end, it was Sun Wukong who had been too weak to admit it all. Because of some fear that any sign of attachment would thrust him back under Five Finger Mountain and its crushing solitude. And so, he’d built up his barriers and watched them crumble spectacularly around him. Now he had nothing once more and it was too late to make amends.

“Fuck,” he told himself.

Convincing himself Xuanzang didn’t need him was the hardest part. Ya got me, baldy. I needed you . Wukong leaned forward, shifting out of his ill-fitting robes. Overwhelmingly sluggish, he dragged himself closer to the water and peered in.

No demon king stared back.

He was no longer the Great Sage Equaling Heaven. He hadn’t been for a long time. He’d simply been Pilgrim Sun, one more disciple by the Tang priest’s side. And for a while, it’d been worth more than everything he’d ever done as the Great Sage.

But he’d been wrong and now he sat, like a stone growing moss. Here he was, Siho at the end of the line.

The face in the reflection was haggard, littered with fading bruises, its weary eyes sunk in near black circles, as if it hadn’t slept in weeks. He pushed away some of that ragged hair, and revealed nothing but scabbing cuts.

Biting hard on that twig, Wukong glanced down at the gauze still clinging to his skin, and dug his nails in. With a thrust, he ripped, until the bandages fell away like shredded paper. He looked at himself again in the river, and felt a chuckle bubble up.

His chest was thoroughly mangled, ribs dented here and there, with ugly prints of grey and blue splashed over white scars. The colors trailed down to his waist, as if some drunken artist had painted him all about with a broken brush. Between bruises and scars, he could see the outline of bones poking skin, the emaciation clear now that there was no fabric to hide behind.

Wukong wasn’t surprised- it’d been no worse than he expected, and still, it kept him glued there. Once upon a time, he’d been proud of every victory scar, of the muscle and vigor, and everything that made him him . He saw none of that here; only weakness and the promise that he would not heal. With a dive, he threw himself into the ebbing water, backside stinging as he swam down.  The river clouded pink around him, the smell of iron sharp as it went red. He’d been right again-- the pipa bone was bleeding.

The streets of Huang Tian were busy in the daylight , and inside its walls, busier still. Within the stuffy walls of OLD GAN’S TAVERN, Bajie cooled himself with a crisp paper fan, hair tied back with pink string, and delicate, human face on display for all to see. He parted those red lips just enough to take in a sensuous sip of rice wine. Some dashing young women in tight yellow silks watched him drink, and that was all the motivation he needed.

A few tables away, the ex-minister had finished her ninth round of dried tofu and pickled curds. Jiu Gong burped, laughed to herself, and slapped a kiss onto the nearest patron. He was a strong one, tall and fine, and just the way she liked it: rough. Bajie chanced a look in their direction after one laugh too many, and saw the vulture near disrobed on that square table, a rather ungentlemanly nobleman atop her breast.

“Yes, oh, yes!” the vulture moaned.

The pig put a sleeve to his lips. What a sight , he thought. For all her wickedness, Jiu Gong was a fine spirit, lustful, curvy, and sly. Her nails left lines of deep red on the man’s shoulders, now exposed, and sculpted to perfection. Bajie hadn’t seen such fine shoulders since eldest brother’s.

And with the thought of that monkey came the thought of that monk. Bajie finished his drink and dropped the cup, watching the ceramic roll along the wooden planks. Clearly Jiu Gong was not going to be the responsible one, and clearly, he would be the one in trouble should their Master find out.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he sighed.

Reluctant, the second disciple waltzed up to the scene, taking care to send sideways glances at the women around, and tapped the nobleman’s back with the head of his fan.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” was the reply, the voice gritty and metallic.

“Yes, I can see that. But-”

“Then go away.”

“Yeah, go away,” Jiu Gong said.

Bajie smiled, serene. “As much as I would like to… join in, I have to say that you have terrible taste in male demons, minister.”

At that, the man froze.

Jiu Gong: “Like it matters. I haven’t had a good fuck since Tathagata took me away- let me have this, pig.”

“Now, now, we can’t have you getting cozy with demons again. Let’s not forget what happened with darling Xiao San, and Red Boy.”

“Really? After all we’ve been through, you don’t trust me, Elder Zhu?” Jiu Gong said, more than a dash of venom in her tongue.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, minister.” He spread the fan again, lashes fluttering. “It’s just that I need Master to trust me . It’s very simple.”

Jiu Gong: “What are you getting at-”

The rest of her reply was cut off by the waiter’s shriek, a bowl of noodles smashing as that nobleman stood to his full height, burning away his robes in a zap of blue fire. What remained was a figure in silver, muscles glistening grey, and skin fused with steel and tin. White pupils turned to Bajie, black irises narrowing behind. And standing on his head of inky hair was a single silver horn.

“So, you found me out, Marshal Tianpeng,” he said, lifting one clawed finger.

He twirled and a beam fell down, landing right over the second disciple’s head.

Ao Lie found himself pacing in circles, horse hooves kicking up dirt for no apparent reason other than the fact that he could. Xuanzang held his reins, oblivious to the pony’s boredom as he wandered by Zhenyuanzi’s side. The patriarch was busy inspecting souvenirs sold by the merchants of Huang Tian, filing through them one by one so he could determine what was melded with pure sunlight and what wasn’t.

So far, nothing was. And for some reason Ao Lie could not understand, Zhenyuanzi found this a worthwhile activity. Xuanzang did not seem to care either way, and the merchants sitting on their embroidered rugs were far from anxious. If anything, most of Huang Tian’s tourists, merchants, or otherwise seemed more interested in why Wujing was blue.

The third disciple pulled the wagon along, stopping every now and then to catch a rogue fly with his tongue. Some passerbys had paused to speak to them, but they’d been met with a growl and glare, more than enough to send them stumbling back. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, no small thanks to the kingdom’s festivities, and the scent of nearby river was making him sick for water. He ignored the bumps of pedestrians who didn’t bother to watch their way and stared upwards, one shadow flying past.

The fish blinked. He hated the feeling of being stalked, especially in such a crowded market.

“Hot cakes! Hot cakes!”

Wujing glanced down. The vendor raised a brow at him, but showed little reaction otherwise.

“Hot cakes, buy one get one free!” the little man said, bundled in all sorts of patched cloths as he pushed a cart of product.

“What flavor?” Wujing asked.

“Why, anything you can think of! We got pepper, wasabi, mint, curry, peanut, coco, name it, we got it!”

It sounded rather appealing, and distracted, Friar Sand turned his head towards the Master, who was currently looking at a pair of sun-gold earrings with the patriarch.

“Master!” Wujing called, “do you want hot cakes!?”

Vendor: “Buy one, get one free!”

Xuanzang snapped to attention, as if pulled out of a daze for the first time that day, and said, “Hot cakes… as much as I’d like one, I won’t indulge because I’m low key.”

“We got low key cakes!” the vendor cried. And now knowing where the money lay, he pushed his cart up to the Tang priest, effectively blocking the merchant across from view.

“Hey, you’re interrupting business!” the other man said.

The food vendor ignored him and pitched to Xuanzang: “Come on, venerable sir, you must be hungry after all that praying- say, where you from?”

“This holy one comes from Eastern Tang-”

“Tang! Real city of cities, huh? But I bet they don’t have hot cakes over there-”

“Actually, we do-”

“But do you have this kind of hot cake, huh, tomato and milk flavored flat cake, seasoned just right!”

“I can't have dairy, and I’m really not-”

“Here!” the vendor said, jumping up and all but shoving one of the tomato cakes into Xuanzang’s mouth, “try it!”*

The Tang priest choked, coughing as he stepped back, a burst of unknown flavors tickling down his tongue. Wiping the crumbs from his lips, he coughed once more and said, “Thank you, sir, but-”

“That’ll be one hundred liang.”

Xuanzang: “Are you serious!?”

“Tomatoes aren’t native to Huang Tian, you know, and this milk sauce is hard to come by- you tried a delicacy, venerable sir-”

“You forced it on me!”

“One hundred liang and I’ll throw in one free hot cake, fresh from the batch.”

Realizing there was no getting through to this man, Xuanzang sighed and reached into the inside of his cassock, fishing around for what money he had left. Alms were hard enough to come by and wasting them on hot cakes was the last thing he wanted to do. But the businessmen of Huang Tian proved too cutthroat for the likes of Tang Sanzang.

“No, this isn’t from the sun either,” Zhenyuanzi said, setting the jewelry back down. Only then did he notice the hot cake cart.

“Oh, you there, how much for one?” he asked.

“Buy one, get one free,” the vendor answered, “discount for outsiders, two hundred liang.”

“But sir, you just said it was one hundred,” Xuanzang said.

Before he could react, the vendor snatched his pay and said, “For holy men. Two for noblemen like this fine gentleman here.”

He left an unwanted hot cake in Xuanzang’s hands and moved onto Zhenyuanzi, the Tang priest at a loss behind them. Wujing watched and laughed, several ugly snorts escaping. And without warning, the sign for OLD GAN’S TAVERN flew into the demon’s torso, pushed him over the vendor’s cart, and slammed his back across Ao Lie’s side. The pony cried in protest, both toppling into a pile of new debris.

Hot cakes littered the air, that short vendor screaming in outrage as Xuanzang struggled to catch each piece. Then Wuneng rolled through the air, back in blue and his opera’s mask, rake locked with a silver demon’s sword.

Wujing regained his senses enough to sit up and shout, “Second brother, what the fuck!?” Or was it ‘eldest brother’ now?

Bajie: “Help me, asshole!”

Jiu Gong flew in after them, clapping her hands in glee, and with a sinister glance, said, “Yes! Yes! Go battle, fight like you’d have sex!”

Zhenyuanzi: “How vulgar!”

Realizing that his companions were doing nothing to help, Bajie dodged a slash of the sword and scraped his rake across his assailant’s chest. Bright cerulean popped from the gashes and the demon jumped back with an angry hiss. A silver hand came up to cover the wound and fine brows glared. Bajie smirked, bringing his rake back in with a twirl and flicked the blood off its prongs.

There was a good insult on the second disciple’s tongue, but he lost his train of thought when a hot cake smacked against his face. He yelped, instantly raising a hand to wipe off those offending crumbs. Which punk would dare-!?

Bajie turned, blinking in time to see Xuanzang and the hot cake vendor glued in place, mouths gaping and Zhenyuanzi just as stupefied beside. Behind the three, that street merchant stood, plenty more hotcakes in his hand.

“Little Ying,” the merchant said, “step back! Big brother will handle this.”

Wujing picked himself up and leaped to Baije’s side, spade poised in tight hands, Ao Lie clopping up behind him and slinking into human shape. The dragon ran to Xuanzang, positioning himself in front of the Tang priest as the merchant landed ahead with a gust of electric wind and spinning cakes.

He flipped his palms, hat twisting into a single gold horn above white hair and robes melting into gold flesh and amber sleeves. His spine popped forward, spikes of metal running through, and now he stood twice as tall, face chiseled and reading storm.

“Brother Jing,” the silver demon growled, “I don’t need your help.”

“But obviously you do,” the gold one said, and that said, he drew a golden sword.

Bajie and Wujing looked to one another and back to those demons, deciding then to split and tackle. The patriarch pulled out his tassel, stepped forward until Ao Lie was in his shadow, and said, “This chi, I thought it was familiar.”

He leveled his gaze at the shining pair.

Zhenyuanzi: “Silver horned and Gold horned kings. I haven’t seen you boys act up in years. You’ve gotten taller.”

And he scoffed. “But none the wiser.”

Wujing: “You know these fuckers?”

Jiu Gong: “You must really get around, geezer!”

Zhenyuanzi shot the vulture a bitter look before turning to the fish and pig. “Silver and Gold here worked under Taishung Laujun. I’d imagine a pair of handsome children would be an interesting sight in heaven, but it seems-”

“Can’t relate,” Wujing said.

“The court gave us the boot before they came along,” Bajie agreed.

Indeed, Marshal Tianpeng and General Juanlian were long gone by then, along with the Great Sage Equaling Heaven and all their legacies, cast to earth as disgraced demons and no more. Those boys came to heaven, then, plucked fresh from home and filled with promise. It was almost sad, then, to see how far and soon they’d fallen- whatever high hopes Ying and Jing had were evidently dashed, for now they stood as devils bottled with hellish chi.

“You boys strayed a long way from the Jade court’s path,” the patriarch chastised, “no matter, this one will put you in your place.”

“Shut up!” Jing yelled, blasting forward with a firm kick.

Zhenyuanzi stepped back and met that gold sword with the edge of his tassel. The Gold-horned king grit his teeth, flipped on his heels, and rolled those spikes near the immortal’s beard. Zhenyuanzi eased out of his way, caught the hilt of Jing’s sword, and waved its owner off with a flick of tassel.

He laughed and said, “Is that all you can do, dear boy?”

Cement cracking beneath his feet, Jing raised both fists and again surged at the patriarch in a bullet of fiery wind. Crying at the heat, Ao Lie grabbed Xuanzang and that vendor before tumbling them behind the damaged cart.

“My cakes!” the vendor screamed.

Xuanzang: “I’m sorry!”

Vendor: “No, you’re not!”

Ao Lie poked his head over the tip of the cart, quite sure the vendor’s business was capoot, and saw Jing blasted back with a push of Zhenyuan’s chi. Across, Ying held off the fish and pig, Bajie’s rake near cutting hairs and Wujing’s spade grazing cloth. The brothers were cornered and tiring out, not near strong enough to withstand those three.

But the most unbelievable part of all was the amount of people standing by. The prince realized the street was no less packed than it was before, if not more so, everyone itching to catch a glimpse of that fight. Jiu Gong stood at the front of its crowd, eager to guide the audience on and goad that fight.

“Nice! Nice!” she cried when Wujing’s foot connected with Ying’s scraped chin.

The silver demon returned with an uppercut to Friar Sand’s jaw before he again swung his sword and met spade. Bajie jumped up behind and slashed the rake down, a spark going off when he scratched that horn. Jiu Gong cheered once more and the audience went along.

The vendor rushed to save his charred cakes, but Xuanzang held him back with all the strength of his left arm. The Tang priest sensed a headache coming on; he honestly did not know what his disciples were fighting over and Jiu Gong turning it into one huge spectacle did not help. He looked over Ao Lie’s head, only to see the fight wind down.

“Your old Master would be very disappointed,” Zhenyuanzi chastised, blowing dust off his tassel as Jing fell through a canvased tent.

The Gold-horned king crawled to his knees and spat out a splotch of violet blood, dark and black as oil. Bones rattling, the demon stood, eyes narrowed and fine horn sharp. Ying landed by his side, the two back to back as the pilgrims closed in. Bajie smirked, bloodlust bursting and rake eager to strike.

“We can’t take them like this,” he heard the gold one say.

Ying: “Brother, you’re right.”

“So is this a surrender?” the pig asked, “we exorcise you in peace and you admit defeat, what say you?”

“Can’t we just kill them!?” Wujing said.

“Wait, wait! No killing!” Xuanzang cried from his spot.

Jiu Gong: “Oh, it’s getting juicy!”

Around her, the crowd agreed and riled, eager to see how this would end. Ying and Jing exchanged one look, gulped, and switched their places.

“What say us?” Jing muttered.

“We say,” Ying said, louder, hands flying to his belt, “Friar Sand!”

The third disciple glared and cried, “What, asshole!?”

And- whoosh!- the fish disappeared in a gust of screeching blue, bent into air and sucked straight past Ying’s waiting fingers, right into an upturned gourd.

Xuanzang: “Wujing!”

Shocked, he let go of the vendor’s arm and scrambled over the hot cake cart, blood rushing as he left his crouch and broke into a full on sprint. Ao Lie took after him, stumbling over hot cakes on the way, until they both came to a stop at Zhenyuanzi’s side.

Ying held up a fine clay gourd, small enough to fit his palm, and said, “You lot stay back or the blue monk gets it. We’ll turn him to wine before the day ends.”

Jiu Gong: “How interesting!”

“Hey, hey!” Bajie said, “you can’t do that! You can’t just turn someone into wine- who- what- what gives you the right!?”

“Watch us!” Jing snapped, and for good measure, took the gourd and shook, “you should have thought of that before crossing us, Tianpeng!”

“Please!” Xuanzang forced himself forward, just within distance of Zhenyuanzi’s reach, and said, “what have my disciples done to wrong you? Surely, this can be solved peacefully!”

Then Ying was upon him, one silver digit under the priest’s chin as he said, low, “the only way this can be solved peacefully is if you comply, Master Sanzang .”

Ao Lie forced himself between them, arms shoving the demon away, and said, “don’t touch my Master!”

Xuanzang shuddered, that cold touch still lingering on the bottom of his chin, a deep foreboding building within. The brothers were weak, this much he knew, but they were working with a plan, and this told him there was much more at stake than a random brawl.

“And who will stop us,” Jing said, mouth curling into a grimacing grin, “will you, Patriarch Zhenyuan?”

“As a matter of fact-” But before Zhenyuanzi could finish that thought, his tassel dropped and his eyes popped wide, horror and disbelief flashing by when he realized he’d fallen for the very same trap.

The gourd’s hole opened and the patriarch fell in, rendered into a swoop of white wind. As the remaining pilgrims cried out, Ying capped that gourd and again tucked it into his belt.

“Wuneng, Xiao Bailong!” Xuanzang ordered, “get that gourd!”

Bajie: “Leave it to me, Master!”

The pig threw his rake at Ying’s head, Jing stepping over in time to parry it with his blade. And it was distraction enough for Ao Lie to sneak in behind and run his fingers down Ying’s belt. The silver demon wiggled away from the dragon’s grip and repaid him with a solid kick. Taken aback, Ao Lie fell left, Bajie catching him by the collar and dragging them both back into the fray.

Jing locked limbs with the dragon and Bajie’s rake collided with a silver sword, all four tangled in a battle of chi and muscle as they tumbled through the street. Ying met the Tang priest’s eyes and quickly looked away. He nodded at Jing and both slipped out, falling into each other’s grip and disappearing in a cloud of burning blue.

Ao Lie and Bajie hit the street in a crumple of coughs and singed robes, still grappling at thin air. And between them was a single talisman in place of those demon brothers.

“Good show!” Jiu Gong said, raising her hands high in a maniacal clap, “good good show!”

The audience roared in agreement, cheering to their heart’s content, as if this had been another one of Huang Tian’s many treats. Bajie leaned against his rake, gasping for breath and puffing in frustration- even his vanity could not be soothed now. Ao Lie pulled the talisman up and waved at Xuanzang.

Ao Lie: “Master, there’s a word here!”

Xuanzang joined his disciples and all but snatched the slip of yellow from Ao Lie’s hand. VULTURE’S PEAK was inscribed in thick black ink, red at its tips and hastily scratched.

“Master, what do we do now?” the dragon asked, “how do we save them?”

“Oh, Master!” Bajie cried, “we tried so hard! How heavy this failure weighs on my heart!”

To prove his point, Bajie buried his face in a sleeve and wept aloud, too loud. Xuanzang crunched the talisman within his hand, steadied his breath, and looked to Jiu Gong.

“Minister,” he said, “we need your help.”

Interested, Jiu Gong waltzed away from her gathered crowd and rested a head atop Xuanzang’s shoulder. Sultry, she said, “what kind of help, Tang-Tang?”

Xuanzang: “Find out everything you can about Vulture’s Peak.”

He shut his eyes, that sense of danger still crawling over bone, and with a light shake, muttered amitabha . Lord Tathagata, if you can hear your disciple now, help me . He’d already lost one disciple. The Tang priest would not lose another one. He was going to save Wujing and Zhenyuanzi, come rain or sun, hell or high water. So long as breath was in his body, he would not let his companions die.

“They came for me, not Wujing, not the patriarch,” he said, “I could tell. But I didn’t say anything because I’m low key.”

He opened those eyes, set his mouth into a grim line, and looked over what remained of their band. “Then I’ll go to them.”

Since when was baldy this bold? Bajie thought. To martyr himself for a pretty girl was one thing, but to risk everything for the likes of Wujing and Zhenyuan seemed excessive. Then again, the pig couldn’t say he was completely  surprised. And he would have had to save Wujing at some point, for as flawed as he was, Wuneng knew he could not do without that brute of a fish. So he held his tongue, and said, “Well put, Master.”

“Well put?” Ao Lie repeated, “this is a terrible idea!”

Jiu Gong laughed. “I’ll agree with the brat. It’s so terrible it’s brilliant. Tang-Tang, I’m in!”

The four were taken out of the conversation by a cry behind them. They turned and saw the vendor on his knees, sobbing and raging against the heavens for the travesty that had befallen his precious cakes. An awkward silence suddenly befalling the street, the crowd which had yet to leave, turned to look at Xuanzang.

With no other recourse under such pressure, the monk reached for what remained of his alms and realized he was about to spend a year’s worth on hot cakes he would never have. And somehow, that was the most normal thing he’d done in a very long time.

Wukong awoke to the warmth of a crackling fire, a mound of soft sheets under him and a blanket over bare skin. He saw the ash from wood first, then the stars blinking behind stray clouds, and finally the shape of a man across him. And- ahchoo!- he heard himself sneeze. After a current of shivers, elbows pushed him up, and he found the man’s gaze locked with his own.

Vision clearing with each blink, he began making out his companion’s features: snowy hair, wrinkled eyes, a crook’s mouth.

“Old man, how’d you get here?” he croaked.

Puti looked at him with some mixture of relief and pity, and said, “We’re outside Three Star Cave. I should be asking you that, you stupid ape.”

Wukong saw his robes by the fire, folded and dried. Then he looked to himself, realizing for the first time that he was again covered in fresh gauze. He tapped his chest.

Wukong: “You did this?”

“Who else, asshole?”

“Tch.”

The immortal leaned against bark, the giant Puti tree folding out above and behind, blending into night and earth like paint on ink.

“Wukong, your pipa bone-”

“I know.”

“Did you know I fished you from the river? What were you trying to do in there, besides polluting the water?”

What had he been doing? Wukong looked away, honestly unsure. Perhaps a part of him had hoped to disappear under and never emerge. He hadn’t wanted to die, simply hide, for he had nothing now and shame in the face of pride was too much to bear. 

“I couldn’t stop the bleeding,” Puti went on, “and you’ve got a nasty fever.”

The monkey shrugged, too tired to react with an insult. He’d long since forgiven Puti for whatever happened between them all those years ago. And still, the incident at Huaguo was one he’d rather not dwell on; Puti’s presence did little to help his case. His old master was not someone he was keen on seeing again, especially after his current one had cast him away.

“But-” Puti hesitated, and Wukong wasn’t quite sure if he saw the immortal’s eyes dampen.

Puti: “That’s not all. Wukong, you’re dying.”

Wukong wasn’t surprised to hear those words, but to have it confirmed had the unpleasant effect of feeling like a kick to the gut. Because after everything, he didn’t want to die, not when he’d finally learned what it meant to live-- even if Xuanzang no longer cared for him, for a while, he’d had the Tang priest and that was enough. To live and see his smile, hear his voice, that much was enough. And that feeling, he did not want death to take away.

Instead, he only laughed, dry and aching. “I am, old man?”

“Your organs are failing,” Puti told him, “none of your wounds are healing, can’t you feel it? Your body’s coming apart.”

He could feel it. He’d felt it since the first night at Liu’s mansion. But he’d kept it out of sight and mind to the end. Wukong had no answer, and Puti took that as a cue to come forward, only stopping when he was inches across his former disciple.

“Don’t give me that look, Wukong. You’re not dying tonight.” He put a hand on the monkey’s shoulder, gentle for the very first time. “Maybe not ever. Just stop fighting. Stop straining this body and there’s a chance-”

“Chance of what? Maybe living? Maybe that’s not the way I wanna go.”

Puti sighed, frustrated and simmering with restrained anger. “Stubborn to the end, eh? Then I’ll be blunt, it’s him , isn’t it? Tang Sanzang- he’s why you want to keep fighting, even like this? How many times are you gonna get torn up for him, how many more times until you’re happy?”

Wukong stared at that barrage of questions, the emotion clear behind; Puti was mad on his behalf, as if he was a dear disciple now, in need of the master’s help. And again, that affection had come too late, and the irony was almost laughable. And the monkey was very much beyond help.

Wukong: “Yeah, it is.”

Because he would not mind this body destroyed a thousand times over for that man. And it mattered not if he was happy, because he would do it all the same. The truth was much simpler.

Tang Sanzang ripped his world asunder and left him nothing save its scattered shreds of shreds. The damage scorched and drowned him like sea and flame, tearing until he fell and fell, with nothing to grasp and still less to hold. Only had the Tang priest never existed would he again be whole, but that in itself required a world devoid of Chen Xuanzang. And then, he’d rather not live at all, for his bits of bits were worth more than any universe, here or there, that conceived of a world without Tang Sanzang.

Chapter Text

One pale finger ran along the strokes of a black brush, smooth nail pressed against the coarse paper beneath, a map in the making and already studied. Ao Lie quirked his head, hoping to see the inked terrain with better vantage. Across, Bajie crunched another peanut in his mouth and flicked the shell away with thumb and finger. The dragon brushed a pile of shells aside, put his finger in painted river, and said, “Would you stop that?”

“I have the right to eat, don’t I?” the pig quipped, “a brat like you wouldn’t understand. I’m so nervous I could die.”

That said, he popped another peanut into his mouth and again crushed its shell with pearl teeth. He picked the shell out and tossed, the offending object landing on Ao Lie’s head this time.

Ao Lie: “You-!”

The prince near jumped, murder flashing in those blue eyes. Between them, the Tang priest looked up, the tip of his left sleeve stained black, and a dash of ink along his nose. Brush still in hand, he lifted and pointed from prince to pig.

“Xiao Bailong, calm it,” Xuanzang said, low, “and Wuneng, stop teasing your brother. I can’t concentrate with both of you yapping like this.”

He looked to the map again, nodded at his handiwork, and said, “See what an excellent cartographer I am? And I’m not even left-handed. It takes patience, something I can’t have if you two are always fighting.”

Bajie: “I didn’t know you were so great an artist, Master.”

Xuanzang: “That’s because I’m low key.”

The map was decent in Ao Lie’s opinion, but not something he would willingly hang in his own home. Xuanzang had painted patches of grass and labeled them Moonfield, traced their steps forward through a forest of black dots, recreated Huang Tian in a block of grey triangles, and stroked ahead until a winding river looped through the kingdom and out. And every line of black was pitifully scrawled, proof that the Master had trouble maneuvering his left palm.

They’d taken refuge in a rundown hostel, a far cry from the grand hotels Huang Tian otherwise boasted, and now the three sat huddled in a windowless corner surrounded by the scent of smoke and cheap wine. If nothing else, the hostel was very generous with peanuts and they did provide scratchy blankets for the night. Ao Lie glanced at the stone wall; the other option was the brothel across the street, loud and fine and filled with gorgeous men and women wrapped in colorful silks.

But Xuanzang had been adamant that holy men stay far from such temptations, and by holy men, Ao Lie knew he meant Zhu Bajie. That, and they were out of money, so to speak- it was only by the generosity of the manager alone that they were allowed this corner in his hostel. The old man had showered them with peanuts and provided the very ink and paper they now used.

Ao Lie wished he felt more grateful. But Bajie crushed another peanut and the prince felt that this was the first layer of hell.

“So let’s look at the facts,” Xuanzang said, “Zhenyuanzi and Wujing were taken by those demon brothers.”

He turned the brush on its handle and tipped it over the latest stroke. “To a place called Vulture’s Peak. We asked around and the hot cake vendor said a river surrounds Huang Tian.”

Bajie spat out his shell.

Xuanzang: “We follow that river, we find the peak. But we’re still missing details on the path.”

Ao Lie: “Master, if they’re powerful enough to take the patriarch and third brother, what makes you think the rest of us are any match?”

Bajie snorted. “Little brother, Silver and Gold horn aren’t powerful. They just got lucky and our friends were stupid.”

“There’s no such thing as luck that dumb,” Ao Lie grumbled, “Master, maybe we should-”

The prince bit his tongue. Bajie cast him a sideways glance, already sure the youngest disciple had spoken out of turn. Brat, don’t say it-

Xuanzang: “What, Xiao Bailong?”

“Bring big brother back?”

He said it. Bajie shook his head and sighed, scooping up another handful of peanuts and rolling two into his open mouth. And- crunch!- he removed the shells, the other two pilgrims suddenly shocked still. Xuanzang’s grip hardened over that brush, bold brows bending ever slightly as his face went grim.

“No,” Xuanzang said, etching fire into each word, “that bad monkey stays far from this.”

Ao Lie: “But-”

Bajie covered his mouth from behind, pulling Ao Lie against his shoulder as he spat out the last shell. With a tsk and tsk, the second disciple sighed and said, “Now, now, little brother, let’s not say anything Master doesn’t want to hear.”

And in a threat of a whisper, he put his mouth by the dragon’s ear: “Know your place.”

Ao Lie kneed Bajie in the shin, wiggling out of his arms as the pig gasped in pain. Glaring daggers, the dragon stood up, about to say something in retaliation when the hostel doors swung open.

“Tang-Tang, I’m back!” Jiu Gong announced.

The other residents of the hostel cast her one look before deeming whatever was happening unworthy of more time. Unaware of the lukewarm reception, Jiu Gong drunkenly sauntered towards the corner and collapsed in Xuanzang’s less-than-waiting arms. She hiccuped in his face, a bubble of rice and plum air, and said, “Guess what?”

“Please, minister, we don’t have time for this-”

She smirked, hands roaming up his chest until they circled around the back of his neck. Pushing him down, she hoisted herself up, lips bent towards his in a mock kiss.

“Ah, relax, ya tight monk.” She hiccuped again and said, “I just got a little ditzy. That’s all.”

“Minister, would you like to get ditzy with me ?” Bajie asked.

Jiu Gong: “Shut up, pig.”

Bajie: “Alright.”

Xuanzang did his best to remain impassive as he struggled to keep Jiu Gong upright, the vulture apparently doing her best to make things as inconvenient for him as possible.

“So what news do you have?” Xuanzang asked.

“What news?”

“Vulture’s peak!”

Jiu Gong laughed. “Just kidding, of course I was on that. I met a family of vultures along the way- really, can you believe it? Vulture’s Peak and they don’t even have a shrine to me. I was so hurt-”

“The demons, please, tell me about the demons,” Xuanzang all but begged.

Jiu Gong humphed and smacked her lips, glassy eyes drifting to the cobwebbed ceiling. “It’s a real story, Tang-Tang. Hey, pig, brat, you might want to come closer- this is some prime gossip here…”

He was floating in a dark dome, night all around and the sea alit with slow blue fire. That was what the world appeared to Wujing. Transformed into a fish, he swam along the edges, fins prodding the round wall for a way out, no exit in sight. Hovering above that water, Zhenyuanzi sat in thought, arms crossed as he stared down the liquid waiting to cook them to wine.

“Zhenyuan,” the third disciple said, gills bubbling, “we’re going to die.”

Zhenyuanzi: “You probably will.”

The patriarch frowned, his reflection warped against Wujing’s great fish eye. “But someone who has cultivated immortality like me can’t die in such a crude trap. And look at how slowly we’re boiling. The temperature barely went up since the day before.”

Wujing: “Didn’t we almost kill you at Wuzhuang?”

“That never happened,” Zhenyuanzi said nonchalantly.

“Yes… it did.”

“Or so you think. You do have a fish’s memory, after all.”

“My memory’s fine!” Wujing growled, before he descended again underwater, the light scent of alcohol now in those gills.

“This is a very basic trap, though sturdy,” Zhenyuanzi’s voice echoed from above.

Wujing resurfaced, in time to see the patriarch thumb his beard and say, “If I can get word to Qingfeng and Mingyue, a rescue can be arranged, but this gourd blocks my magic…”

The fish found that train of thought as useless as wishing Sun Wukong would burst through and save them then and there. And just as he was about to speak his mind, a voice thrummed through the space around, low and echoed, as if it came from an unending pitt between heaven and earth. Each syllable vibrated and shook those walls, the words humming as they penetrated the water in smooth ripples.

“Jing, Ying,” that voice said, “you had one job. I know you’re young, but don’t think I’m some kind of pushover for the youth.”

“Forgive us, my lord,” Jing’s voice replied, disjointed from the outside air, “we were just following the King of Spiritual Touch.”

A shriller voice, unmistakably female, weighed in: “More like stupidly! My lord, you asked for the Tang monk, and what do we get? Friar Sand and Zhenyuanzi- who cares about them!?”

Rows of sharp teeth clenched as Wujing fumed, a swear on his tongue, though he knew no one could hear. But Zhenyuanzi shushed him with a finger to the lips, brow knit while he listened intently to what was at hand. A cracked chuckle followed the third voice, slow and deliberate before a fourth said, deep, “Don’t fret, my friend. There are ways around this. For now, there’s another feast to attend. The children will be bone by midnight tomorrow.”

“How is that anything compared to the Tang priest?” that very first one said, unappeased.

Wujing heard what sounded like a sensuous breath and the fourth say again, “It’s nothing, but my gift to you, dear friend. Now come, relax, and let your tiger handle the rest.”

“Fine, you old crook,” the first said, Wujing bobbing along the ripples of his voice, “I’ll let that beast stand guard in their place. Go behind my back again and I’ll snap your spine. As for you, my little pipa, run off now.”

“And what about us?” Ying said.

Their lord laughed, cruel and colder still in the dark. “I don’t give a singular fuck.”

Then those voices dispersed and Wujing again felt the gourd shake, Zhenyuanzi startled by the movement and now dropped into the water under. Together, they swirled to and fro in the liquid’s blue bottom, trying to string together the pieces of what they’d just heard.

Xuanzang tugged the hat farther over his head, brim effectively shielding his eyes from Huang Tiang’s sun, large and languishing in the yellowcast noon. Teeth clenched over string, he pulled with his good hand and tightened the loops beneath his chin, the sound of cranes and sailors overhead. On the docks of Heaven Reaching River, he stood between what remained of his disciples, Jiu Gong scavenging for empty boats ahead.

The river glistened in the golden sun, flowing ever strong under the chained boats, looped together and bobbing amidst nets and wood. It was a swirl of green and blue beneath, barebacked fishermen hauling their catches aboard shaking decks.

“Master, are we really going to trust that vulture?” Ao Lie asked, a straw hat pressed over his scalp, newly purchased for the sole use of hiding those horns.

Xuanzang: “We have nobody else.”

Ao Lie hadn’t been keen on anything the minister had told them the night before, and even less now that they really were acting on her plan. If nothing else, at least they now knew why the merchant from Hu had been so eager to escape the kingdom’s festivities. The great lion that Huang Tian worshipped in its hedonistic frenzy was a god of many forms, shaped by warring kings and queens in due time. He, and sometimes she, and sometimes, he again, was a bringer of the harvest, guardian of the water, patron of joy, and warden of death.

The prince stared ahead at the lion’s statue, the mighty beast a pillar of stone near merged with river. It was a mortal-made rock and nothing to fear, but regardless, Ao Lie found himself breaking contact with its fierce carved eyes.

“It should be little brother doing this and not I,” Bajie sighed before them, voice pitched to that of a squeaky youth, the pig now shaped into a pudgy child less than half their Master’s height. “But alas, his magic is so weak.”

Ao Lie: “You’re just scared!”

“I, Marshal Tianpeng, scared? Of some superstition?” Bajie said, with a bob of twin buns atop his hair, “as if!”

“I should hope it’s not some rumor,” Xuanzang cut in, cold.

“Oh, Master, if that’s true, then it would be my honor to die for your sake,” the pig exclaimed, latching onto Xuanzang’s robes as he faked a wretched sob.

Disgusted, Ao Lie looked away, gaze again caught by that angry lion. He gulped and dwelled on the minister’s words, of gods and monsters even his father’s sea could not reach, things so far lost to the abyss that heaven itself remained unawares.

Because for the villages beyond the outskirts of Huang Tian, there was no such lion. They worshipped a demon born of blood, with the head of a lion and a crown of human bone, more than devil and not quite dragon. They warred over his favor, for he protected those who served and laid waste to whosoever dared fight back. He was the lord of that river, the only piece of heaven in his keep, and he would keep it at bay in return for offerings of mortal flesh.

His power grows from death, you know , Jiu Gong had so chirpily told them, the more innocent the blood spilled, the stronger still. Isn’t that cool?

That was what the vultures of the peak at Heaven Reaching’s end had so readily told Jiu Gong. But one mere demon could not hold such power over the deities and spirits around. He was allied with Vulture’s Peak and the demon who dwelled there, the lord of the peak and king of its dry woods beyond. His influence spread from Huang Tian to Moonfield and over, an underworld kingdom of seething demons under his calculating grip.

“They take in strays,” the minister had said, “any demon that comes their way. Awfully nice about it. I would have done the same.”

And just as they’d wrapped the people of Heaven Reaching around their claws, they’d hooked in clan upon clan of small devil as well. And it was not wealth nor power they promised. The lord of Vulture’s Peak had offered a gift far dearer- survival among the demon’s world and the promise of human flesh. All he asked was their bidding in return, for he was a reasonable leader, albeit a tyrant by all the birds’ accounts.

Bajie: “So we’re screwed if we go in?”

Xuanzang: “Only two here are going in.”

Ao Lie had smirked and said, “I’ll pray for you, elder brother.”

But as Jiu Gong had so excitedly explained, the Gold and Silver Horned Kings were strange additions, taken in not long after heaven cast them down, the Honorable Virtuous One himself angered at their arrogance, for rumor had it that they’d tried what Sun Wukong had five centuries prior: a coup on court.

And so, Bajie now stood as a young sacrifice, one half of the yearly package those false gods demanded every tide. Jiu Gong would play the young girl, and together, they would act as tribute from those outer villages, all of Huang Tian content to ignore the troubles of the world outside, for it too seemed under some guise of curse.*

“Did you find a boat?” Xuanzang asked, upon Jiu Gong’s return.

“Yeah,” the vulture said, eyes sliding towards the fisherman in front.

The man threw the last of his haul onto the dock, when with a sudden push, Jiu Gong leapt behind, tipped the boat, and knocked him overboard. With a twirl of her hand, she undid the rowboat’s chains, summoned its oar, and cried, “Tang-Tang, now! Get in!”

Xuanzang: “Minister, this is robbery! I can’t-”

In the middle of his reprimand, the monk slipped and hit the bottom of that wooden craft, dragging Ao Lie with him, Bajie reluctantly jumping in after. As the fisherman cussed and splashed about, Jiu Gong swatted his fingers from the boat’s edge and shoved an oar into Ao Lie’s hands.

“Row!” she ordered, “Row now!”

Stunned into obedience, the prince could do nothing but obey, a dragon’s full strength soon propelling them far from the docks and into the path of Heaven Reaching River. Mortified, Xuanzang clambered upright and kowtowed at the boat’s edge, hoping the fisherman could see his too-late apology. Amitabha , he thought, this is not a great start.

“Master, do we have a backup plan?” Ao Lie asked, the oar easing into a slower motion of his arm. And only then did he realize what menial work had been forced upon him. But the Master could not be expected to row, and the prince did not trust the rest of their band. He was effectively stuck.

“If that doesn’t work out,” Jiu Gong said aloud, “I’ll change back and seduce that demon.”

“Master, I too will offer up my body!” Bajie added, perking up at the thought of sex, already prepared to shift into a handsome man’s form.

“Nobody is seducing anyone,” Xuanzang chided, again poking at his sling, an irritating itch clinging to the skin beneath.

It had all seemed mighty convenient to him, that he should be lead first to Moonfield, then Vulture’s Peak, as if fate had linked it all together. He knew the demon lord had his eyes set on him, had them set long before Longevity Mountain. But the Kingdom of the Yellow Sky had not been in that demon’s plans, nor had the favor of Zhenyuanzi. No, the clan at Vulture’s Peak had intended to take him twice, first on the day of that thunderstorm, and then on the fourth night of the Blood Moon. But he had detoured at Wuzhuang instead, and then, Wukong had been there to ward them off.

Xuanzang: “We’ll leave Bajie and the minister at the peak’s end.”

But Huang Tian was en route west, and they’d sent Ying and Jing in to see if he would be there after all. The wheels clicked in Xuanzang’s mind, why this demon had bided his time. He had feared fighting the Great Sage, then the patriarch, and so, he’d waited. Xuanzang wondered if they were hoping Wukong would grow weaker, for no doubt the centipede had known, and then they’d swoop in to finish him off. But Xuanzang had sent Wukong away instead, and ridding themselves of Zhenyuanzi took priority next.

It was a clever plan, but Xuanzang was cleverer still, and yet, here he was, with every intention to give Vulture’s Peak exactly what it wanted. He almost laughed at the irony; if not for that broken bone, the Sodding Palm could descend now and vanquish his foes.

Xuanzang: “Then Xiao Bailong and I will go in. You two look for the gourd. And we find the lord. Once we take down their king, they all fall.”

“And if,” Ao Lie said, “we die?”

“I won’t let you die,” the priest said, and he meant it.

Bajie did not believe a single word. He looked into the water instead, fish swimming past as Jiu Gong shifted into a rosy young girl across. If worse came to worst, Bajie decided he would simply grab Wujing and make a run, Master and sutras be damned.

The mouth of Heaven Reaching River poured into a rolling sea, hidden by mist and brewing clouds of grey, the wind chill and whispering waves of promised death. Around, cracked skulls lined its shore, like castaway shells and china over sand. Lost boats lay in that bed of bone, wood splintered and blood dried, evidence of carnage back in time. And all sat in the shadow of a high cliff, the rock near black and jagging upwards in sharp sharp turns, a single cave at its very top.

Birds of prey circled above, cawing and squawking as they fought to fly. This was Vulture’s Peak, the vision of hell on earth, and still worse than everything that Jiu Gong had described. Ao Lie successfully pushed their boat over the last unsteady wave and docked it against a series of skulls. Wincing, the dragon set the oar down and climbed out, extending a hand to help Xuanzang down after.

Bajie and Jiu Gong followed, playing the part of nervous children right down to watery eyes and quivering lips. Xuanzang and the fourth disciple each took a child’s hand in their own, and linked together, the four walked on, old skeletons snapping like brittle twig beneath. And Ao Lie could not but feel that it was a familiar sight, that Vulture’s Peak was not so different than the Huaguo he had seen.

He bit his lip, wondering then if this could have been the Mountain of Flower and Fruit, that perhaps in some other life, the Monkey King would have sat in place of this demon’s throne. It could have been big brother , he thought, the sentiment strangely chilling in his mind. And he pondered what was worse, the notion that Demon King Sun Wukong had been every bit as wicked as the lord of Vulture’s peak, or the idea that this devil may be as tried and true as their Pilgrim Sun.

But Ao Lie’s turmoil was soon replaced by another fear.

“Are we supposed to climb all the way up there?” Bajie mumbled.

The four stared up, the mouth of that cave so far away, and after looking left and right, Xuanzang called out, “Hello!” voice echoing about. He waited for the last sound to fade to air before stooping down to the children’s height.

“They should come for you,” he muttered, “stay put and stay in character. Xiao Bailong and I will wait elsewhere.”

“Better hide now, Tang-Tang,” Jiu Gong replied, “the Tang priest’s scent won’t escape them. But if you go now, they might think it came from us.”

Xuanzang nodded and turned away, grabbing Ao Lie by the sleeve as he scrambled over to the shadow of a rock. They slid down a hill of bone before coming to a crouch hidden from incoming sight, near blended with the scenery around. Ao Lie pressed himself closer to the Master’s side, lowered his head, and strained to see what would happen ahead.

A pair of devils came crawling out of that cliff’s shade, skin death white and faces streaked red, demon markings etched about their bodies like old paint. They stood, short and hunched, telltale signs that they were new to human form, and sniffed the air. Bright yellow eyes fell on the children left, Bajie and Jiu Gong huddling together in an imitation of fear. Loincloths dragging, the demons approached, daggers in hand and half-plated armor clinking against rust. Bajie leaned back out of instinct as a dagger halted beneath his chin. Its owner grinned, licked his fangs, and said, “This one smells good.”

“Good, very good,” his companion said, scratchy, near drooling over Jiu Gong’s head.

“Don’t, don’t hurt us,” Bajie whimpered.

“Come, come,” the first devil said, words tempered with the slither of a snake, “we won’t hurt you. But you’re late. So naughty.”

“So, so naughty,” the other added, “come, come.”

Bajie and Jiu Gong exchanged looks of fear, clinging to one another’s sleeves as they were forced back to their feet and into the arms of each little devil. Jiu Gong started sobbing, rather convincingly, and not to be outdone, Bajie cried out, “Father! Mother! No!”

As the demons carried them off, Xuanzang pulled himself out of the shallow hole, hopped forward, and pulled off his hat. The monk squinted at the path they’d taken, convinced the four had disappeared through a passage carved into the cliff in front, their entrance camouflaged by stone.

“Xiao Bailong,” he said, “can you get us through that opening?”

“It must stink, Master,” the dragon answered with a frown, “did you see what were they wearing?”

“Xiao Bailong.”

The prince sighed. Ao Lie let his own hat fall, dusted his robes, and said, “Yes, Master.”

“Then go!”

The climb through Vulture’s Peak had been tedious, damp, and dark, but Bajie had expected as much as soon as those amateur demons had taken them through the passage in the cliff. By the time the demons let them drop, the pig’s face was stained with mildew and dust mites, the air having gone from cold to cold and wet. He and Jiu Gong found themselves sitting in a hollow of stone, surrounded with twenty or so sickly, crying children. Ten males and ten females each, he counted, and the floor was littered with yellowing skeletons of children gone.

“Shut the fuck up!” one devil hissed, bringing a club down on the boy beside Jiu Gong.

As expected, the child cried harder and when the devil made to strike again, the vulture had pulled the boy aside and shoved him behind Bajie. The devil exchanged glares with her and turned. Bajie noted that there were many devils coming in and out, each as weak and ugly as a minion could be. But he admitted they gave off a vibe not unlike the wolves of Moonfield, and wondered if this was a different clan. The monkey had effectively rendered the Woodland devils extinct. These, he supposed, were the devils of the peak.

“What are you gonna do to us?” Bajie asked, hoping one of their guards would have the decency to answer.

“Nosy one,” a demon said, busy sharpening his dagger against the outside wall.

Well, that was rude.

“You just got here. You’ll live a few more days.” It looked at him and sneered. “Your friends ain’t so lucky. Lord’s going to separate the yin and yang; then skin them.”

“Skin- skin them?”

“Right down to their little bones!”

As the devil snickered, Bajie looked to his fellow prisoners (barring Jiu Gong’s melodramatic face). The children could not have been captive for more than twenty or some days, but they looked as if they’d been kept for years. It occurred to him then why the cave was so damp- a demon’s spell was at work and some cast of chi was draining these mortals of their energy as they spoke. Once they had nothing left to give, they would be skinned and eaten, so-called innocent blood spilled, and that demon king would gain the power he so craved. As for the victims, Bajie stared down- they would be rotting skeletons and he wondered if the bone too would be devoured clean.

Ao Lie had once enjoyed riding on the backs of his father’s servants, spurring them on as he laughed with violent kicks. It was a hobby he’d outgrown with age and boredom, but as he carried Xuanzang through the winding paths of Vulture’s Peak, the memory returned rather sourly. Except now, he, prince Ao Lie, was the beast of burden, and he supposed his time as a horse had successfully numbed him to the shame he would have otherwise felt.

Xuanzang, tall and dense as he was, was not a terribly heavy mortal, but the weight of dust and dirt along the way left Ao Lie in a dour mood. At the Master’s orders, he climbed through the tunnels and hiked when he could, white robes totally muddied when they reached the passage end. With a sigh of relief, Ao Lie placed both palms against the slab of stone that blocked their way. He prepared to shift it aside when the Tang priest put a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” Xuanzang said, pressing an ear against that stone.

He heard the wails of young children and the antsy footsteps of demons moving in and out. The ideal scenario had been going in and sneaking past whoever held that gourd, but the monk had expected the cliff’s design to go against his wish. He’d told Bajie and Jiu Gong to wait for his cue should this happen, but he knew that would throw every troop into his way.

“You’ve fought beside Bajie before,” Xuanzang stated, “Xiao Bailong, I need you to do it again. When we open this, reveal your true form and go in.”

Ao Lie was no stranger to the notion of mortal sacrifice, and in the days of history past, his own family had gladly accepted human tribute in their domain. It was not a time they spoke proudly of, and yet, they were not ashamed. But humans, frail as they were, were lives all the same, and as the prince came to learn, his ancestors had never had more right to take those lives than the demons here.

He wanted to ask why nobody else could play hero for once, but he supposed there was nobody else. It had been them to exorcise Moonfield and it would be them again. So instead, the dragon said, “Master, be careful. You only have one arm.”

At that, the monk chuckled and said, “I will.”

Wasting no more time, Ao Lie knocked the stone back and flew out, a rush of wind slicing through scales as his body stretched and roared, blue mane flowing and sharp teeth bared. The dragon swooped down, gulping up as many devils as he could and chomping down as he crunched into flesh and blood.

While the captives watched, stiff and still, Bajie shifted out of the child’s guise and swung his rake, right into the torso of a devil preparing to run. Jiu Gong spun and left her transformation behind; again a woman, she jumped onto Ao Lie’s back and took Xuanzang’s incoming hand.

“Quite a cue!” she whistled.

“Help me out!” Xuanzang said, watching the debris shake from falling rocks.

Jiu Gong pulled him close to her and leapt off, the pair rolling under Ao Lie’s mammoth form and dashing into the path ahead. Struggling to keep up, Xuanzang clung tight to the vulture’s sleeve, feet hopping over rock and bone as he turned and cried, “Wuneng, Xiao Bailong! Hold them off!”

He saw arrows fling the dragon’s way and break when they failed to pierce moving scales. Ao Lie spat out bones as he swirled through the air, body smashing left and right as he forced himself more room to fly. At his side, Bajie jumped and landed on the tip of his rake, feet twirling as he spun the weapon on the spot, shredding all who came his way. The pig laughed, pleased at the bloodshed, and said, “Hey! Over here!”

Fifty or so devils charged his way, and the other twenty ran the opposite path, each group out of Xuanzang’s line. Having gotten this far, the monk eased out of Jiu Gong’s grip and said, “Minister, take care of the children!”

“But I hate children!”

Xuanzang: “Thank you!”

Jiu Gong: “Wait!”

But by then, the priest was gone, having run off into yet another stone corridor, leaving the vulture in an angry flutter behind. She turned back to the tumble at hand, shook her head, and in a snap of fingers, propelled herself over to the children’s side. With a wave, she dragged out a circle of chi around, just enough to shield the pathetic things from ever more harm.

“It’s what Tathagata would want,” she mumbled to herself, itching to join the carnage that the disciples had caused.

Sobbing, one girl hugged her. And another followed suit. By the third child, the vulture snarled and snapped away. Having caught sight, the pig laughed, and Jiu Gong responded with a heated, “Shut up!”

Xuanzang paused to catch his breath, heart pounding against his ribs as he pressed himself against a wall. He could still hear Ao Lie’s roars through the stone, the sound now a low hum which shook the ground with each bump. The space was wider where he stood, less damp and finer crafted. Dim torches lit each corner and a high ceiling hung ahead, intricate carvings lining the walls from floor to roof like ants. He gulped and ran on, eyes dragging here and there for any signs of the horned kings.

He had nothing to use against them, besides his mouth perhaps. There was no sodding palm and he’d left his three companions behind. Perhaps he should have taken Jiu Gong, but the children would be dead otherwise, and the monk could not risk such a thing. And still, he was confident Wujing and Zhenyuanzi would come out fine. This part of his scheme, he knew would not fail.

Xuanzang jumped into the shadows again, breath held as a clatter of footsteps passed his way, the familiar sight of Jing and Ying running towards the commotion down, swords drawn and faces grim. And poking his head after, Xuanzang saw no signs of the gourd. For a moment, he worried it was tucked into one of their robes, but dismissed the thought when he remembered how big it was- small enough but not so small that he would not see.

He exhaled and continued, not stopping until he reached the alcove from which the brothers had come. It was a dark recess with nothing save the spark of a fire, buried deep in a hole on the floor, and at the entrance, he could already feel the heat on skin. Bracing himself, Xuanzang approached, careful with light steps, and dropped to a squat when he saw that shape in the shadows: the horned brothers’ gourd.

“Wujing?” he whispered as he scooped it into his hand.

And instead of the third disciple’s familiar voice, he heard the growl of a beast behind. Eyes wide, Xuanzang turned around, the fire now high enough to illuminate what had been waiting for him to come. A tiger stretched, twice the size of any wolf he’d seen, and claws bared under maroon eyes. Striped fur bristled as it snarled, nostrils flaring in its slow approach, almost taunting in its stride.

Xuanzang: “Good- good cat-”

Roaring, the demon jumped, claws digging into the monk’s shoulders as it tackled him down. Xuanzang felt his head slam against stone, right arm jostled, and limbs splayed flat. Hot breaths fell atop him, teeth snapping down, the heat unbearable in their struggle. With a strained grunt, Xuanzang turned his head, just in time to avoid the creature’s jaws. The tiger raised one claw, taking strips of Xuanzang’s flesh along, and gritting his teeth against the pain that followed, the Tang priest regained enough sense to pop the gourd’s cork with his left hand.

The gourd rolled away and in its shock, the tiger slashed down, catching Xuanzang under the ribs and failing to take more skin when the monk twisted out of its way. Hissing in pain, Xuanzang crawled away, robes stained red and skin burning hot, vision fading with loss of blood in spades. And still, he forced his eyes open, eager to see the mist forming behind.

A giant fish fell out, landing on the tiger with a heavy- splat!- and a man slid after, both drenched in wine and shaking with chattering teeth. The patriarch climbed to his feet first, hair and beard tangled and matted in wet loops. He shook all over, fought to recompose himself, and looked around in a daze until he met the Tang priest.

“Master Sanzang- what happened?” he gasped.

“Master!” Wujing cried after another spastic shake.

Xuanzang saw them in the flesh, solid and otherwise not worse for wear, and heard himself laugh, true and dry. Then those laughs, and his companions too, faded away.

Ao Lie felt his tail sweep past another row of devils come, blades crushed and clubs smashed down. The dragon roared once more, curled in and unfurled before he rammed into the cavern roof, rock crumbles falling upon the poor demons near. Bajie swiped his rake over a charging devil, taking two limbs and spurts of blood. And all the while, that vulture egged them on with cries of, “More blood! More blood! Come on, fuck them up!”

So sure of victory, the disciples let her comments slide, and just as he made to blow away the last of those troops, Bajie heard Ao Lie snarl, sharp and strained. Alarmed, he turned, in time to see the dragon’s head slam through rock before that whole body crashed,  sliding through debris and dust. Ao Lie tumbled into a pained stop, barely enough to avoid piercing the minister’s shield.

The dragon struggled to look ahead, but the pain proved too great, and wincing, his eyes fell to the wound on his tail, near one leg and sliced far in. Almost mesmerized, he stared on at the rivulets of green on white, as if a river of dark blood had cracked open upon his patterned scales.

Bajie: “What-!?”

Jiu Gong whistled next, and Bajie whipped around once more to see the source of Ao Lie’s fall: flanked by the Silver and Gold-horned kings, a man stood at that cavern’s end. Proud yellow eyes stared on from lids painted red, cheekbones high and worn face proud. Decked in flaxen silk, he approached, cream cape trailing across one shoulder and hair pelting waist, until its end roped into a single black braid.

Tall, striking, and near glowing gold, Bajie near mistook him for a celestial come down. Beautiful , he almost said, then immediately purged that thought. What stood before him was a demon and nothing more-- the lord of Vulture’s Peak, arrived at last to defend his home.

With all the grace of a prince from heaven, that demon came to Ao Lie’s side, cast him an annoyed glance, and plucked a shaft of metal from his scales. It came away emerald green, thoroughly stained with dragon’s blood.*

“So these are the Tang priest’s disciples,” the demon said, smooth and deep, and the mockery in his voice was enough to send the pig’s blood boiling anew.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Bajie snapped, holding his rake up for another strike.

The demon licked the blood clean from that metal piece, not stopping until his tongue turned green and not a trace remained. It was an ornament in the shape of a steel crane, and pleased with his work, the demon stuck the hairpiece back atop his head. And regarding Bajie with all the interest of a child on bug, he said, “I am the lord of Vulture’s Peak, the Yellow Wind King- Huang Feng.”

“Never heard of you,” the second disciple said, “you must think you’re so handsome, eh?”

“Better looking than you, I suppose.”

That was it . Ao Lie recovered his nerves enough to see Bajie surge forward, rake stretched out and poised to stab. The dragon hissed when the pig fell, so sudden that neither felt a warning come. Bajie hit the ground with a painful- crack!- his rake lost and footing gone, all movement stopped by a contorting of limbs.

“Damn it-” he managed to grunt out.

Standing behind the pig, Jiu Gong grinned, her shield gone and long nails raised, an invisible tether of magic binding her to him.

Bajie: “You- you-”

“Bitch?” she said, “now, now, I’m just doing what the heart wants. I am a vulture , after all.”

As the remaining devils struggled to stand, Jiu Gong walked to the fallen pig and put a foot upon his squirming head. And smug, she turned to meet the Yellow Wind king’s haughty gaze.

Jiu Gong: “I told you I could do it, didn’t I? I got them all here.”

“And so you did.” The demon delivered a clout to the brothers still standing beside. “Much more useful than these two here. Now, the Tang priest?”

“Your partner’s on it.”

Not waiting to hear more, Ao Lie grit his teeth and gnarled his claws, pain braced and body stirred. He sprung into action, curling in as many screaming children as he could see, before launching himself forward, those captives on his back. Shaking left and right, he made a beeline past the way he and Xuanzang had come, straight through that hidden passage and barrelling past until he could fly.

“The dragon!” he heard one of the horned kings say.

“I’ve got this!” Jiu Gong answered, and her voice alone spurred Ao Lie to slither faster, as if fire was at his tail’s end.

Wujing flopped and flipped, rapidly blinking when he saw the monk collapse. Mind coming clear, Friar Sand popped back into human form, and only then did he notice the demon he sat upon, a tiger now crumpled underneath. Zhenyuanzi released a conjured bird from his hand. Then he stepped over, lifted the priest into his lap and pressed a hand to his wound.

“Not fatal,” the patriarch said with a sigh, “it’s just the shock.”

Wujing nodded and for once, looked around, seeing nothing save the fire and tiger nearby. He could not tell where they were or why, or how the Master had come. And then staring down at the unconscious monk, those robes ripped at the chest and shoulder, bits of bloodied flesh underneath, he realized-- baldy saved us? I’ll be damned .

Wujing looked to the groaning tiger and said, “If the boss knew what happened, he’d skin this guy alive,” more to himself than the patriarch. Maybe I should do it for him.

And just as he summoned and lifted that spade, skin still dripping wet, he felt a burn along his chest, smoking past his chain of skulls and trailing from his backside up. Eyes popping, he looked behind, a flutter of paper seals clinging to him like birds of prey.

“Don’t fret!” Zhenyuanzi said, “this is just a cheap spell!”

The fish felt smoke rise within his gills, a hundred or so talismans trying to weigh him down. And frustrated, he cried, “Where’d these come from!?”

Friar Sand was a demon still, and the exorcist’s ink now burned over blue, Zhenyuan the Immortal trying to calm him down. But Wujing was crying aloud by then, a thousand curses sliding from his tongue. Having gathered the monk upon his back, Zhenyuanzi made his way over and began prying those seals off with waves of his palm.

Zhenyuanzi: “I’ve never heard of demons who could use these seals, though. What a sneaky-”

And- bang!- a clatter of bronze smashed against skull. Wujing twisted, and saw the patriarch freeze, jaw slack. Then he fell forward, landing face down on the ground in a cloud of dust. In the patriarch’s place stood a devil caped in lion’s fur, a nine-faced hammer in his calloused grip. Lavender dust traced past his eyes, shadowed by a crown of carved bone, that chin narrow and visage hard.

“I hate celestials,” the demon remarked, voice so scratched it was a half croak.

Fuck, fuck, and fuck , Wujing thought, that flock of paper closing in.

The sun was red and falling by the time Ao Lie’s leg gave out, Vulture’s Peak and its island of bones far behind, with nothing but high dry trees to meet his eye. He held his breath and sunk back into human shape before he crashed, each child bouncing off him and rolling into bush and twigs. Ao Lie collided with a mouthful of dirt and grass, thoroughly bruised and bottom half burning.

He propped himself up, released his breath, and with a hiss, sat forward. His right leg dragged as he moved, a deep gash cutting past fabric and skin, muscle and tendon showing against stained green. And still, it was not broken. Biting his tongue, the dragon stood, half hopping half limping as he searched for the children that fell, a meager ten.

“All of you,” he ordered, “go home.”

“My- my brother’s still there,” one girl said, voice weak.

“Can your parents make another one?” Ao Lie asked, holding back a moan at the realization he would have to go back.

“No!”

“We’re lost,” a boy added, struggling to stand.

That makes two of us . The prince stabled himself against a tree and sighed, quite sure he was the only one that had made it out. Bajie had been captured, and he had to assume the worst for Xuanzang, but he refused to believe either was dead. He supposed they had no one to blame but themselves for trusting that damned vulture. He felt his teeth grind of their own accord- big brother wouldn’t have let this happen . He had never trusted Jiu Gong and he should have said so from the start.

Now this mess was upon them and Ao Lie had failed to do what the first disciple had asked. Take care of baldy, ya hear?

And as the guilt gnawed at him, the prince paid no heed to the shadow ahead. Until that same girl screamed. Jostled from his thoughts, Ao Lie swooped in front of his new charges, bloodied robes flowing, and cried, “Go! Go!”

The children obeyed, scrambling as much as their strength allowed, and Ao Lie could do nothing but size his opponent up: Jiu Gong perched before him, smile red and eyes too smug. He threw himself against her, arm locking onto arm in some parodied wrestle. They tumbled off into a slope of dry grass, trying in vain to push the other off. The dragon gave a final battle cry before dipping down and sinking teeth into the vulture’s wrist, blood spurting out.

Jiu Gong cried out, slammed her teeth shut, and jabbed a foot into the prince’s wound. Ao Lie let go with a gasp and her hands took hold of his hair in a wrenching grip. Jiu Gong tugged and smashed him straight into the dirt, fingers locked tight as she climbed atop his back and kept him pinned. He thrashed and wriggled, but she would not yield. And just as the dragon made to bite again, she hissed, “Calm it!”

“How could you!?” he snarled, “Master trusted you-”

“Tang Sanzang’s not that stupid, you little brat! Who do you think arranged this shit?!”

At that, Ao Lie quit his thrashing, a confused, “what?” escaping his lips.

Jiu Gong relaxed her grip on his head, though neither moved, and said, “The vultures here wouldn’t betray their king. I had to do the next best thing.”

Ao Lie: “You… lied?”

Frowning, the vulture nodded, and it all came clear. Her information, far too much, had not come from any birds nearby- she had been told, direct from the source himself. She’d allied herself with the Yellow Wind Demon and told him all he’d wanted to hear. And somehow, this was exactly as the Tang priest planned.

“You told them you’d bring Master here,” the prince said, slow,  “and you did. But then… why lie to us?”

“Why else? So you’d run.”

She stepped off him at last and dragged a palm over his bleeding wound. Ao Lie gasped and was again shushed. “Hey! I have to make it look like I killed you.”

Jiu Gong wiped the blood over her robes and said, “Here’s the gist of it, kid. Your Master knew he wasn’t coming out of this alive. Had to make things look as hopeless as possible so dumb disciples like you wouldn’t try anything else.”

“So he’s been captured!”

She rolled her eyes. “Look at you, getting dramatic already.”

Jiu Gong held her palm up, as if examining the glow of green under sunlight, and said, “He already told me to save the children. And I’ll release your brothers if I feel like it. Then I’ll be on my way, and tell Tathagata I helped him enough. Win win.”

Ao Lie pulled himself from the dirt and put a hand over that damned wound, a whole new brand of hurt reigning in. Xuanzang had lied to his face, and now the priest had run off to die. He’d trusted the monk so much, and in the end, Ao Lie was the one betrayed. And the damndest part was he did not want to leave the priest behind, because angry as he was, he could not let that egghead go just like this.

Jiu Gong: “So that’s that! Go back to the sea and don’t come back. It’s over.”

The vulture whistled in mock delight, clapped her hands, and made to walk off. Ao Lie sat, unmoving, and watched her move, not a hint of hesitation in her steps. But the sea was no longer his home, nor Three Star Cave, and no more illusions of glory or grandeur plagued his miniature tyrant’s brain. Something had changed and it all led to this road west.

And so, pushing back the lump in his throat, Ao Lie said, “I can’t.”

Jiu Gong stopped and glanced back, head barely tilting around. Ao Lie gulped again, he too unsure of what he was going to say, but he had to say it all the same.

“I’m not running away,” he said, “And I don’t know why you think you’re so different from us. You’re not.”

“Oh, I’m not? What is this, a lecture?”

“Just listen!”

The dragon smashed a fist against the dirt and emotions out, said, “Those devils were right about us! Disgraced, unwanted, outcast- me, Zhu Bajie, Sha Wujing, Sun Wukong- it’s all true. We were hated, we were punished, we were left to die, and maybe we deserved it, because we were a rotten, rotten lot!”

Ao Lie had not wanted to admit it, had not wanted to bare this shame, but now it spilled out, and he found that there was nothing to belittle about the very truth. There was nothing to belittle the words of Prince Ao Lie, Third Heir of the Western Sea.

“But Master took us in!” he cried, “he wanted us as we were, because he saw something in us no one else could! Maybe he’s crazy or stupid or weird, or- he has issues, but that’s nothing compared to our issues. And that makes him better than any celestial or what have you I’ve ever met.”

He jabbed a finger in the vulture’s direction and said, near snarling, “And aren’t you the same? Fallen, cast out- you’re just like us! But he forgave you anyway, because none of us were hopeless to him, not even you, not even me.”

Jiu Gong stomped towards him, eyes warning murder, and said, “Alright, you little shit! Here’s what I have to say-”

Ao Lie: “I don’t care! You do what you want and run off. That’s on you . But I, Yulong, am not leaving him to die.”

Before Jiu Gong could take a step more, Ao Lie turned his words into an echoed growl, and shot to the sky, twisting into a dragon’s full form as he trailed past clouds with the last of his strength, now fueled with adrenaline through and through.

“Today’s the day.”

Wukong gazed up from his spot in the shade, Puti returning with a cup of brewed tea. The monkey stayed pressed against the trunk of that mighty tree as Puti passed the cup into his waiting hands, the smell of herbs and healing grass burnt to smoke. The cup was made of clay, thin and brittle in his palms, the tea no doubt scorching to taste.

“Already?” Wukong said, recalling an empty ache, unsure if he should be angry with himself for having forgotten or at time for coming so quick.

Puti sat beside him and nodded.

Puti: “Wawa was thirteen when…”

“Xiao Hua was fourteen,” Wukong finished, unwilling to finish that sentence.

They sat in silence, guilt shared between, as if the sound of ruffling leaves would soothe scarred ghosts and sleeping sobs. Wukong took a sip of tea, bitter and harsh, and wondered if Puti still faulted him for what they lost. But he knew it mattered no longer-- those children were long dead and no matter how they bounced that blame, this fact would not change.

"You think they’d like it here?” Puti said, with a look at the giant leaves fanning above.

“It’s bigger than anything they’re used to,” the monkey replied, “Three Star Cave’s a fancy piece of shit.”

“They could fly kites here.”

“Kites would just get stuck in the tree.”

Puti chuckled, laughs tinted with a touch of sorrow. “They’d come to you for that. ‘Climb up, Wukong, climb up.’”

“And after I get it down, Wawa’d be out there playing with something else already.”

Then he imagined Xiao Hua standing in front, staring at him with a toothy ‘sorry’ which meant she wasn’t sorry at all. It made him smile, a reminder of just how many years had passed since. Puti and his disciples three would never stand and fly kites again, this they both knew. But back then, before any sign of wealth or power, and in spite of each starved and cold night, they had been happy, and that was enough.

And that time would never return. It stung, still, as Wukong sipped again, wondering if it was so wrong to miss those days.

Puti: “What’s that up there?”

The monkey looked up, near choking when he saw what appeared to be a snake boring through thinning clouds, a slither of white against falling sun. The shape stretched and grew, resembling Ao Lie’s familiar form more and more as it flew down in shaky zags.

“Bailong?” Wukong mouthed.

The cup fell, contents spilling, when Ao Lie arrived, or rather, crashed, belly raking past remains of fire and tail splashing over grass. Bursts of wind and leftover breaths swept out as the dragon stopped, Wukong and Puti frozen as they watched. Grunting, the prince crunched in on himself and wiggled into his human shape.

“Ao Lie!” Puti cried, upon the dragon in an instant’s blink.

Still wrapping his head around what had happened, Wukong followed, noting the stains of dirt on the fourth disciple’s so-clean robes. For all that the dragon had been through in his time west, Wukong had yet to see him so thoroughly throttled. His pale hair was in disarray, eyes frenzied, and skin muddied with dust and green. Ao Li crawled up with Puti’s help, one leg dripping blood from a deep-set cut.

“Master,” Ao Lie said, relieved as he clung to the immortal’s grip.

The prince turned to Wukong then, and nearly bursting, said, “Big brother! I knew you’d be here, I knew it, I knew it!”

Laughing, he eased out of Puti’s hold and stumbled towards Wukong, stopping when he fell into the monkey’s arms. The first disciple was thinner than he recalled, but solid all the same, as sturdy and real as Ao Lie had always remembered.

“Big brother, I didn’t know where to look,” he blathered, “but I knew I could find you, I knew I could, I-”

Wukong: “Bailong, calm down. What the fuck happened?”

“The Yellow Wind demon!” Ao Lie said, tongue out of control and knowing not a word made sense, “he’s taken Master and second brother, and third brother, and Zhenyuan! Jiu Gong doesn’t want to help, the children, they’re all at Vulture’s Peak and-”

“Let’s go.”

Ao Lie stopped for breath, tongue twisted when he realized what the monkey said. Wukong stared him down, gaze burning, and said again, near growling, “Let’s go. I know who this asshole is.”

“Oh, and how would you know?” Puti asked, sharp.

Wukong snorted. “I’ve been king to devils too, you know.”

Then he left Ao Lie hobbling as he went to collect his cloak, hung up along a root of the Puti tree. Wukong yanked it off and shifted in, glowering as he said, “But last time we met, bastard was telling me not to eat people. He’s changed, I’ll give him that.”

“What?” Ao Lie gasped, “what happened?”

“Don’t know. Most demons start out bad and get worse. This guy, though,” Wukong replied, before pausing to snicker, “got much, much worse.”

Ao Lie waited as Wukong tossed his scarf about his chest and wrapped it tight. “So if we don’t leave now,” the monkey said, “that lot’s good as dead.”

Wukong gathered his staff, held it until his knuckles popped white, and made to leave, shoulders dropped and brow pointed down, every inch of him jumping for speed and enemy’s blood. But as he stepped away, Puti appeared in front, arms folded out, as if prepared to fight.

Helpless, Ao Lie hopped towards them, suddenly realizing he might have disrupted a conflict in waiting.

“Wukong,” Puti warned, “you can’t fight anymore.”

“Out of the way,” the monkey hissed.

“You’re good as dead if you go now. And like it or not, I’m. Not. Letting. You. Die.”

Wukong turned his head with a roll of the eyes, and said, “Real nice of ya, old man, but-”

And- “freeze!” he cried- Puti’s mouth shut, eyes widening as his body stiffened, muscles contorting from the sudden spell. Two fingers pointed at his face, direct from Wukong’s hand, the monkey’s features slightly softer as he said, “Like it or not, I never gave a fuck what you wanted.”

“Big brother, what’s going on?” Ao Lie asked, gaze flipping from Puti to Wukong at a rapid pace.

Eyeing Puti, the monkey shrugged and said, “Not important. Come on.”

Wukong took Ao Lie by the elbow and hopped towards the sky, not once looking back as they landed upon the somersault cloud. Apologetic, Ao Lie stared down at Puti, the snow-haired immortal staring up at them with stunned eyes, frozen to the spot and face forced still. But he’d already promised to save the Tang priest, and so he would. Without prompting, Ao Lie looked once more to Wukong, the monkey’s eyes never once leaving the path ahead, and told him all he could about Huang Tian and after.

“That fucker looking for you?” Wukong asked as they neared the woods around Heaven Reaching River.

Ao Lie stared at the demon ahead, club in hand as he scavenged every unturned piece of rock and wood. Jiu Gong had told them of his ‘death,’ so Ao Lie assumed the demon was sent to find the corpse, or perhaps the remaining children still amok.

“I don’t know.”

Wukong released a pop of breath, kept his grip on the cudgel tight, and said, “Bailong, I’ll lure those shitheads out. You go in and save our lot.”

And before Ao Lie could utter a word of consent, the monkey had leapt off the somersault cloud, as-you-would cudgel raised high as he cracked it over the demon’s head. Blood spurted as that devil reeled and stumbled, straight into Wukong’s violent way. The first disciple kicked him back and swung again, staff slamming the devil down. Wukong brought the cudgel down once more and yet again, cackling as the demon screamed.

But when Ao Lie was so sure Wukong would deliver the finishing blow, that monkey stopped. Instead, Wukong raised that staff, only to swing it across his shoulders and send one last glare.

“Tell your lord,” he said with a nudge to the dying devil’s head, “Grandpa Sun’s coming to kick his ass.”

Chapter Text

Ao Lie fell over the somersault cloud as that devil crawled off, Wukong looming behind him in cruel shrill laughs. The dragon landed on his head with a dull grunt, and feeling a new bump form, sat up and rubbed his scalp. Coming to his side, Wukong plucked up a twig and jabbed it through the corner of his mouth, teeth clamped down. The monkey bent and lifted Ao Lie up by the scruff of his robes. Once the dragon was pulled to his feet, Wukong bit on that twig and said, “They’ll be here soon. Get to the peak.”

Ao Lie: “We’ll go together-”

“You’ve got the vulture. That’s enough.”

“But she’s not you, big brother. We need you! ”

Wukong released the fabric, cast a grunt, and said, with almost a hint of apology, “I’ll catch up. Huang Feng’ll send his best men out here- I’ll take care of them, and they’ll be out of your way.”

“How do you know? Maybe they’re all waiting there.”

Wukong: “It’s what I would do.”

Ao Lie went silent, the monkey’s dark eyes telling him he was serious through and through. And again, that thought shuddered past, the notion that Sun Wukong and the king of Vulture’s Peak were not so very different in the end. Regardless, a portion of this plan did not sit well with the dragon’s head.

“Big brother… do you mean to fight all of them, yourself?”

The first disciple flashed a grin, features ever grim. “It’s why you got me, right? Besides, cudgel’s itchin’ to move.”

Not quite convinced, Ao Lie said, “Do we have a backup plan?”

“I’m the Great Sage Equaling Heaven. I don’t do backup plans.”

Ao Lie had hoped for a better answer, himself out of plans- the monkey had been his final resort, and now there was nothing for them to do but gamble on. And so, the dragon nodded. He knew the first disciple had been injured the last time they’d met, but Ao Lie told himself enough nights had passed for Wukong to recover full. He looked past the dipping horizon and the tall trees ahead, deciding that he would have to trek over on foot, his true form much to obvious to the eyes.

“Big brother,” he said, unsure if he’d have the chance to say so again, “I missed you.”

He expected the monkey to roll his eyes or brush him off, but instead, Wukong only said, “Yeah, I did too.”

The prince smiled and turned, limping off into wooded covers as Wukong looked on from behind. The dragon gone, Wukong let his own grin drop and shut one eye. The Yellow Wind demon had changed indeed; from what dim memory he had of old Lord Huang, Wukong recalled a creature who did not want blood. But five-hundred years had changed them all, himself most, and regardless of what sympathy he once had, the demon had touched Tang Sanzang. That alone was enough to warrant his death. The Great Sage did not forgive.

Grey fur sprouted over skin as the monkey’s shape took hold, armor come out and four flags popping behind: GREAT SAGE EQUALING HEAVEN hoisted high for all to see. He yanked the cudgel down, swung, and stabbed it into the dirt, all but daring those devils to approach. And the pipa bone bled on, soaking the tips of those flags in dark war red.

Wujing awoke to an acute pain in his chest, eyes level with the ground, and all seven feet of him upside down. As the dust settled from his brain, the fish blinked his left eye first, then the right, and altogether, cleared the mist from his vision, returning far too rapidly for his comfort. The sound of wind fighting water slithered through his ears, echoing about what appeared to be a cavern.

“About time,” a voice said, and that tone, he’d know anywhere.

Zhu Bajie was pinned to the wall behind, stripped of his blue robes and left in silky white, a paper talisman stamped to his forehead, and limbs chained to murky stone. A small cut dented his bottom lip, suggesting to Friar Sand that their captors did not appreciate whatever comments the pig had let loose.

Beside him, the patriarch sat, Zhenyuanzi’s eyes shut in deep meditation, wrists and ankles bound by weighted chains, heavy with rust and demon’s magic. And the Master hung not far away, suspended by rope around his waist, cassock gone and robes pierced with hooks. If not for those closed eyes, Wujing would have thought him standing straight. Dried blood colored his clothes and bits of fresh red slipped still over skin.

“Master-” the third disciple made to say, but found his throat pulled dry.

Irises darting down, he saw a talisman stuck to his neck, and even farther still, a hook lodged in his chest, one mundane enough to not scar, but sharp enough to pain skin and leave a gutted fish. A hook held him to the ground, and charmed chains kept his legs bound together and pointed up.

“I guess this is the end,” Bajie lamented, “the brat’s good as dead, Master’s going to be supper, and the rest of us will rot here. ‘Alas, poor Tianpeng, beauty wasted and love lost, dies here, alone and cold.’”

Then he looked at the fish, Wujing’s bulging eyes telling him he hadn’t paid attention at all, sighed, and said, “At least we have each other, no? It’s funny- I never really knew you in heaven. I don’t think I really knew anyone up there. All this really makes me think...”

“Think what?”

Startled, Bajie bolted up, or as straight as he could, and shot a glare at the lord of Vulture’s Peak. Huang Feng, as dastardly pretty as the last time they’d met, had entered, a dash of conjured fire in his palm. The demon brought up his hand, illuminating the rest of that wide cavern, marred with sharp rocks and high ridges, dampened and cooled by the winds howling in from its opened mouth. His prisoners stayed in their corner, trapped by shadow, and far, far across from the high throne at the other end.

“Come, share with me, Tianpeng,” Huang Feng said, a seductive taunt to his words.

On his shoulder, the scorpion nodded in earnest, giggling as she added, “My lord, let’s cut out his tongue!”

Bajie: “Really? What did I ever do to you!?”

Huang Feng stroked the scorpion’s head and said, “Perhaps nothing to her, marshal. But to me, you celestials are all the same.”

Then he paused, and added, with a sneer, “Forgive me. Were , I meant. You and good Juanlian over there aren’t gods anymore. If even a warding talisman can keep you so subdued, you lot really are no different than the rest of us.”

“If you have some grudge against heaven, I don’t care,” Zhenyuanzi said, not bothering to open his eyes, “tell us already, what do you want, demon?”

“I want to expand my rule. With the Tang priest’s flesh, even you, Zhenyuanzi, will be no match for us.”

“But isn’t it tiring?” the patriarch asked, “all this power play? I see no reason why you couldn’t have been happy here, in your little domain, unnoticed and insignificant.”

“That’s precisely why. We’ve spent enough time in the shadows, enough time cowering. It will be a demon’s era soon enough, and I’ll be the father of it all.”

Xuanzang: “You’re wrong.”

The monk lifted his head, sharp eyes telling all that he had not been unconscious for quite so long. Straddling a smile between amusement and anger, Huang Feng approached him, put a hand to the criss-cross of the priest’s robes, and said, “Oh? And why is that, good master ?”

“All these sneak attacks, harming innocent mortals, eating children of all things- you don’t have to worry about cowering, Lord Huang. You’re already doing it.”

Baldy, do you want to get us all killed!? Bajie strained forward and cried, “He’s kidding! Oh Master, you and your humorous jokes!”

Huang Feng: “Innocent mortals, you say?”

The demon scratched open those robes, revealing tight gauze winding past the man’s chest and shoulders, leftovers of the tiger’s handiwork.

“I’m keeping you alive because flesh is best consumed with the chi whole,” Huang Feng said, “or I would have killed you for that.”

Backing away, the demon chuckled, humorless and forced, as if a sob had been held back.

“Tang priest, I had no qualms with anyone, celestial or otherwise. But back when I was nothing, no subjects, no magic, not even human form…”

He bit his lip, glaring fire into the monk’s fevered eyes. “They hated us, hunted us, tortured, and slaughtered. And they were rewarded for it. Humans, celestials, all the same. We demons had nothing but each other. I learned this too late.”

Huang Feng snapped his fingers, producing a paper talisman suspended in the air. “This,” he spat, “was what killed my mate, burnt her to ash while your kind cheered. We didnothing to them.”

He let the paper burn, soot crumbling in his palm as Xuanzang looked on. “I decided, then, that it was time to do something .”

His last word out, pushed into the air like a curse, Huang Feng vanquished that flame and dusted his fingers, bits of black raining down and staining skin. And as he watched the soot fall, Xuanzang couldn’t help but bite back bile and let a shudder out.

“Kill! Kill! Kill! K-”

A row of heads were slammed into bloodied pulp when that cudgel again came down. Wukong kicked the devils out of his way and let his staff roll away, thick as a rice bowl and twice in height. He spun it towards another band of demons charging his way, and let his lips release a mocking hoot. Cackling, the monkey leaped back, catching his cudgel on its return, and cried, “Really? This the best old Yellow’s got!?”

His words pushed them on, each devil screaming “kill!” in varied half-growls as they charged with clubs, and spears, and whatever they had on hand, one goal in mind: you-cut-and-gone. Wukong let a machete lop off his head, and as the demon who did it blinked in shock, the monkey’s arms moved up and ripped him in half. The first disciple’s fallen head faded into smoke, and Wukong popped his noggin back into being, again whole from head to toe.

“Change!” he cried, and sent the staff flying up at the devils who’d thought to jump from trees.

The as-you-would cudgel shot straight over their growling heads, grew into a pillar thick as palace walls, and eclipsed those soldiers in black shadow before it fell. And- smash!- tissue and bone broke apart as they were crushed into bits and bits. Stepping over heads on his way, Wukong hopped atop the cudgel’s back and slid down as it shrunk back into his hand.

“For lord Huang!” another little devil shrieked, followed by another, and another, bouncing echoes back and forth, not unlike the woodland demons he’d first fought.

He counted at least fifty and sixty incoming, each face so similar to the last and too dumb to ward off death. They were loyal, he’d give them that, and though he laughed as he cut past spines and cracked through skulls, some pang in his gut refused him any mirth from death. He made their demise quick instead, the swiftest mercy he could offer, for he was no Chen Xuanzang. But he was Sun Wukong, and in their eyes, he saw the trueness of Mount Huaguo, that same will to die for their lord and ask naught in return.

“For lord Huang!”

Wukong clapped his hands over that mouth, snapped the devil’s head to the right, and threw the body down.

“For lord Huang!”

“Say something else, asshole!”

Wukong held his ground and felt the staff grow, a storm of fire bursting from where he stood, flames cracking forward in you-run-I-chase streams, until they engulfed each howling devil and falling sword. In turn, the sky rained ash and stained the monkey’s face with splashes of soot, embers leaving streaks of glow along dark armor bathed in blood and flame.

“Lord Huang?”

Clan after clan fought for the Yellow Wind lord, and for what, he wondered? That demon did not care, had taken them for granted until the end, and would do so until he died. Four flags stretched, their poles piercing a quartet of hearts on cue. Wukong yanked the corpses off one by one, and tossed them at what remained of the minions ahead.

Wukong: “Lord Huang-”

It made his fur bristle and his nostrils flare- the fact that the lord of Vulture’s Peak was so callous, that he’d dared harm the Tang priest, that it was he who forced Wukong to gut these troops without a second thought. Worst of all, he knew he should not care, but that same something had changed him so thoroughly he now did.

“Lord Huang, he-”

Growling, the monkey spun once more, flags and staff cutting down each and every devil that hopped his way. He was a speeding bolt of wrath and fire, matchless in his lust for blood, wild in his fury, and ready to kill and die, a Demon King come straight from hell. “For the Monkey King!” they’d once screamed, “For the Great Sage! Great Sage! Great Sage! Great Sa-”

“LORD HUANG NEVER GAVE A FUCK!”

The monkey came to a smoking stop, chest heaving as he surveyed the carnage all around, those demons torn limb from limb and scattered about the forest in heaps of blood. In his ears, the devils’ screams looped, roped in with the sound of his hammering heart, the fire still humming through eyes and veins. He coughed, once, then twice, and a good four, five times more, as he hunched against the bloodied cudgel. Never gave a fuck, never gave a fuck.

He pressed a knuckle to his cheek, breath caught as he felt a dash of wetness slide against fur. He shut his eyes, squeezed, and opened, more tears slipping out. He wiped them dry and shuddered, feeling much more winded now that he had stopped for good. But there was no time to worry or mourn- Huaguo’s failures were behind him now, and the minions of Huang Feng were not his own. This, he wanted to believe, and somehow, he still felt as if they were the same in the end. After all that, he had not changed a bit.

The Tang priest had been right.

But the aches in his body said otherwise. Wukong shifted, backside burning from the pain of pipa wounds torn. Breathing in and out, he forced himself up, for if nothing else, one thing had changed- he’d met Chen Xuanzang. He’d met that monk, and nothing had been the same since, and this, he would gladly admit. So he could not fall now, could not stumble and think his fight wrong, not if the priest needed him once more.

“Great Sage Sun?”

The monkey started, head twisting around to find that voice, and immediately, felt a gust of wind snag his limbs and pull him down. Grunting, he jammed the staff deep into earth and held on, legs snapping tight and teeth clenched as he fought the tug ahead. Standing feet away was a demon painted steel, the Silver Horned King and his open gourd.

Wukong roared and twirled aside, forcing the as-you-would staff to grow along as he swung himself out of the gourd’s magnetic path. He flipped on his head, kicked the cudgel up, and flew above Ying on spinning flags. Shocked by the monkey’s escape, the Silver Horned demon panicked and dropped that gourd, fumbling for his sword as- crack!- Wukong brought the staff down across his chest.

Coughing blue blood, Ying fell, the popping of bones apparent as his chest cracked under that blow. He held the pain at bay, long enough to cross weapons with Wukong when the monkey charged again. They parried back and forth, the monkey taking his time as he poked in and out, watching with satisfaction as each new dent and bruise imprinted upon the demon’s form.

“So you’re the silver horn king, boy? King of what?” the monkey mocked.

And grinning, he brought his foot down, Ying’s leg crunching under his one step. The silver horned demon howled, sword dropped, and in one swoop, Wukong threw his hand down and lifted Ying up by the collar of his ripping robes.

“A word of advice from Old Sun,” he growled, “nobody harms my people and gets away with it.”

Snarling, Wukong swung again, weapon missing his mark when he was offset by a razor pain. Warm liquid trickled under armor, soaking fur and cloth as a golden sword pushed through flesh from back to front. Its tip came to a rest at the cudgel’s end, its arrival enough to save the other demon’s head. Wukong heard himself let out a muffled gasp, teeth grinding as he glanced behind, another arm curved under two flagpoles.

Another demon was crouched at his side, near identical to the Silver Horned King and golden from head to toe, a sword stretched in his hand. The blade had found its way under the shadow of armor plate and struck in from behind, piercing the back and entering between two ribs. It now lay locked between flesh and cudgel, and bloodied to the hilt in slick, fresh red.

“You bleed,” the Gold Horned King said in disbelief, as if he too could not believe he had wounded the Great Sage.

“He bleeds,” Ying echoed, and bloodied lips forming a smirk, said again, “ he bleeds .”

In a rage, the monkey pushed past that blade regardless, cudgel again aiming straight for the demon’s head. Crying out, Ying dodged as Jing pried his sword out, sending their target stumbling off. Wukong steadied himself, breath coming out in angry pants, and said, “ I’ll kill you. ”

“I’d like to see you try, Great Sage,” Jing said, on edge and prepared to fight, “it’s true then, that the old always fall.”

Nostrils flared, the monkey rushed towards him on fiery heels, flags again spinning, and cudgel stretched with every inch gained. Jing swept his feet around, sword held to block as a shield of chi conjured around his form. It flashed gold and broke red when the as-you-would staff came thundering down. Wukong forced the weapon onwards, grip tight as it grew and grew to his command. Under him, the Gold Horned King was pushed down, feet sinking into earth as the force above threatened to break his wall of chi.

When he was waist-deep in dirt, that shield came apart in pink crackles and the cudgel stabbed in, catching Jing by the jaw and tearing down until it pierced his chest. Wukong kicked himself behind that staff and pushed its very end forward, letting his cudgel shrink as it tore the demon apart. Black blood gushed out like a geyser of oil, pouring over soot, and coating those four flags.

Jing lay still, jaw ripped off and body split in near half, an electric mess of steel and flesh, his spirit still screaming as it flew out. And to make sure the job was done, Wukong raised his cudgel up for one last blow.

And- smash!- the monkey fell on his knees, a pile of rocks gathered above.

Wukong climbed to all fours, flags receded as rocks became boulders and boulders became hills, the familiar weight of burning land atop his shoulders. The weights continued to gather, keeping him crushed and leaving no space to move, the wounded scapulae so jarred he could do nothing but scream as another set of mountain-weight fell on top. Then another, and he was down, hand still outstretched as he watched the staff roll away, reverted to a wooden stick.

Between the sound of his own splintering flesh and grinding bone, Wukong heard Ying laugh in triumph, that demon left where he lay, palms held together as he finished the summoning spell.

“Kill you!” was the last thing the monkey gasped, before the final rock landed on his head.

There were no children left scattered in the woods. Ao Lie wondered if they had successfully wandered home, but it was more likely than not that they had been gathered by Jiu Gong and returned to their prison. She’d promised to free them, and the dragon supposed he would have to trust the vulture on that. A rumble shook the prince where he stood, and when the tremors subsided, Ao Lie held a hand against the ache in his leg. Big brother? He looked back, knowing the monkey was far behind. Debating whether or not to turn, Ao Lie decided to press on forward; he had been given a task, and he would obey.

When he at last entered the end of those trees, his nose was assaulted with the familiar scent of Heaven Reaching River- immortal, cruel, and a tad salty. Ao Lie poked his head out, again staring at that shore of bones and the peak embedded within. But the thought of that climb already hurt his head, and grimacing, he knew his leg would fall off by the time he made it in.

“The last pilgrim!” he heard a gruff voice cry, “I found him!”

His cover blown, Ao Lie turned, narrowly avoiding a spear thrown his way, its blade barely nicking the corner of his cheek. A trio of devils flew out at him, gleefully ready to nab their catch, when a net popped in from behind and trapped them all. The netting went ablaze with fire, and it was only then that Ao Lie saw the talismans stuck upon. As the demons burnt to their tortured deaths, Ao Lie forced himself to look away, finding himself face to face with who stood behind.

Sitting on a high branch, Zhenyuanzi’s boys stood, Qingfeng and Mingyue looking down at him side-by-side. A bird fluttered beside, a small scroll clamped within its beak.

Qingfeng: “I take it you need our assistance, Bailongma.* I believe we can help each other out.”

Mingyue: “Where’s our Master, horse boy?”

“I’m a prince!” Ao Lie snapped back on reflex. And then just recognizing who it was that he spoke to, asked aloud, “Wait, you two, how did you get here so fast?”

Then from the tree hollow, a third figure reared its head, one whose face Ao Lie had never met but was familiar all the same: a white-bearded gent in a nobleman’s hat.

“Tudigong,” the figure said, “of Longevity Mountain, at your service.”

“Lord Huang! Lord Huang!” the devil shrieked, barely clinging to life as he barged into Huang Feng’s cave, “you- you- you’ve got to run!”

Whatever standstill Xuanzang had been engaged with was interrupted by the minion’s presence, for now Huang Feng’s attention fell on him. The monk squinted in the dark, immediately grimacing at the demon’s sorry state- a half-cracked skull and blood all around.

“Run? From what? Speak clearly,” the Yellow Wind Lord said.

“The Great Sage Equaling Heaven!” that devil burst out, “he’s here for you! He killed Lord Jing and-”

At the mention of the Great Sage, Zhenyuanzi broke meditation, eyes snapped open as the pilgrims whipped their heads up. Xuanzang found himself alight with panic, the walls of the world again closing in a hundred voices telling him not to scream. Wukong was here- how, what, and why, he did not know. But every instinct the monk had left told him his former disciple should be gone. He did not belong and his presence alone did nothing but counteract Xuanzang’s plan. Sun Wukong should have left and lived, and now-

“Old Sun’s come to visit, hm?” Huang Feng said, the wounded demon clinging to his cape.

He turned, then, to Xuanzang, and smiled, the priest wondering if his features had betrayed his thoughts.

Huang Feng: “I was wondering where that ape went. You, monk, on the other hand, do not look pleased.”

He smacked the little devil away, that demon falling with a splat, its human shell gone and leaving nothing behind save a rat’s corpse. Immediately, the scorpion descended and began munching on carcass.

“So that’s it, you’re just going to let your servant die?” Xuanzang said coldly.

Without sparing the rat a glance, Huang Feng stepped over it and began removing the hooks from Xuanzang’s robes. Smacking his lips together, the demon said, “He couldn’t be saved. And I’m not the only one about to let someone die tonight.”

The hooks gone, Huang Feng turned towards the end of that cave and said, “Vanguard, come. Take the Tang priest to the highest ridge, and tell the King of Spiritual Touch to meet us there.”

And from out of the shadows, that tiger stalked, rising until it appeared on two legs, changed into the shape of a lithe man, shoulders broad and caped in orange, stripes lining each side of his scarred face.

“Of course, my lord,” he said, whiskers curling, “And might I add, the Tang priest’s blood smells so good.”

With one swipe, the vanguard cut the monk free and caught Xuanzang as he rolled down with a bitter grunt. Still glaring, the Tang priest forced his head up and said to Huang Feng, “Whoever hurt your mate is long dead. What you’re doing now is wrong.”

The demon bent, pressing his cheek against the monk’s own, and drank in the scent of holy blood. Then, he hissed, “We’ll see who’s wrong when I’m through with your Great Sage.”

Wujing had expected the Master to go quietly after that and leave the rest of them to their helplessness, but the monk’s surprises came to no end. Because as soon as Huang Feng finished that thought, Xuanzang lashed out, kicking against the Tiger Vanguard and reaching his one good arm towards the Yellow Wind Lord. Thrashing, the monk grabbed onto a tuft of black hair and screamed, “You dirty coward! One hair on him’s worth more than a thousand of you! You know what, I’m worth more than a thousand of you- you just wait, you just wait- you’re the one that’ll be sorry! You!”

Huang Feng broke free, a clump of his hair yanked off in Xuanzang’s fingers, and with a growl, the tiger silenced his rant with a hand around his throat. The vanguard squeezed tight, watching as the priest choked for breath, and released him once that face went purple. Glaring at them, Huang Feng waved his hand and watched the tiger leave. Then, with a final look of warning at the rest of their band, disappeared with a flick of his cape.

The prisoners looked between one another for a good few beats afterward, until Bajie broke the ice with, “Baldy’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You bet he is!” the scorpion chirped, done with her meal and leaving nothing but bone. Then she too had scampered off.

“No, they’ll have to keep Master Sanzang alive. It’s us who should worry more,” Zhenyuanzi said, “that is, until I figure a way out of here.”

The patriarch had remained surprisingly calm through the whole ordeal, and Bajie wondered if it was due to his age or a hard bump to the head. But now that their captors were gone, he could do what he’d wanted from the start. Nose shifting into a pig’s, he forced an oinking sneeze-- the talisman fell from his head. And- “change”- the second disciple shrunk into a mouse, his chains falling with a harsh rattle.

“Hm, I’d forgotten you had thirty-six transformations,” the patriarch said.

Eyes rolling, Bajie scurried over to Wujing, climbed up the third disciple’s legs, and said, “This is going to hurt, fishead.”

“Asshole,” the fish seemed to mumble.

Bajie tugged and yanked the hook out, a splatter of blood gushing as Wujing cried out on silent gasps. Then the pig fell, heavy hook in hand and toppled back into human form. He adjusted his hat and said, “You’re welcome. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

“And then?” Wujing mouthed.

“Are you daft? We leave. We’re free, asshole. No more sutras, no more journey west. Master’s good as dead and we didn’t do a thing.”

“Wait, wait,” the patriarch said, “Elder Zhu, you don’t mean to abandon-”

“That’s exactly what I mean! We’ve been through enough, alright? Look at me, Wujing. See these bruises? Look at us. We’ve gone through hell for him, and it’s still not enough.”

The fish did look at him, but he said nothing, more so because he wouldn’t than because he couldn’t. A dead weight fell within his healing chest, as if Bajie’s words had more punch than even that hook. Because what he said was true, what he had been saying throughout this whole journey west. And Friar Sand had nodded along with every word, had been one with the pig from the very start.

It had been every demon for himself, then the three of them against Tang Sanzang, and now it was Tianpeng and Juanlian against Tathagata’s will. Or was it? Wujing knew where Bajie would go from here- they’d had enough discussions on the matter, enough planning, and enough schemes.

But in the end, if nothing else, Friar Sand was no traitor- this much was true. He shook his head, watching as the second disciple’s masked face first paled in shock, then colored with rage.

“So I’m on my own then?” Bajie said, “no matter. That’s the way it’s always been.”

He turned away from Wujing, bowed at the patriarch, and again turned into a mouse that crawled away, eager to find his rake. His empty chains stayed put and the other captives did not move, nothing in the air save the sound of angry sea and gathering storm.

“That was very noble of you-” Zhenyuanzi said to Wujing, but was silenced with the fish’s growl.

It was dark, this Wukong could tell. It had been dark five hundred years ago, and it was dark now. Chest clenching, he felt himself panic under fiery pain, again lost under Tathagata’s hand and the Five Finger Mountain. A fate worse than death, he’d called it, and still, some selfish part of him wanted to live on, freedom a lotus flower away. He had been the Great Sage Equaling Heaven, the Handsome Monkey King of Water Curtain Cave, lord of Huaguo and its domain.

But there, wasting away and starved to bone, he’d been nothing but a lonely monkey who’d raged and sobbed at everything wrong. For it was easier than admitting that he had brought this upon himself. And then a particularly stupid man had stumbled into his rotting prison, blindly believed his every word, and offered him freedom- and to him back then, freedom meant revenge, and with vengeance came power.

He’d wanted nothing more than to take back what was his, to make heaven and earth pay for his humiliation and loss. It did not matter how he’d do it as long as he did. But he remembered that man, that idiot of a man, the first face he saw in over five centuries: young, thin, stupidly poor, with a set of thick dark brows that would have been serious on a sterner face. And he’d had that wild head of bushy black hair, tangled locks the monkey had been eager to pull off from the moment they crossed his eyes.

“I’m Chen Xuanzang!” that man had said.

Squashed back to human shape, Wukong awoke, more than aware of weight grinding against skin, and wheezed, a spout of blood dashing from his mouth as organs shifted and squeezed. He tried to move, ribs twice broken cracking as the mountain pressed down, teeth biting tongue to keep from a scream. He felt that mountain weigh down on his skull, red spilling from both sides of his nose, and a trickle of pink trailing down the corner of his left eye, salt blended with fresh blood.

Crying because it hurts, eh? he thought, what a way to go . It was only a shame that Puti hadn’t been there to say, “I told you so.” But Vulture’s Peak was not so far away, and Ao Lie was so near their goal. And how many demons left, he asked himself.

We need you! That dragon had said.

But you’re just going to die here, a voice told him, like you did five hundred years ago . He was going to stay down and crushed, having barely triumphed over a demon and a half. Because Ao Lie had been wrong, back then and now- Sun Wukong was no hero. He was just a demon with too much ambition and too little restraint. And he would let them all down, just as he had let down Flower Fruit Mountain and all his subjects.

He had let Huang Feng down as well, perhaps the worst of all. When that demon had come to the Monkey King, pleaded that he keep his thirst for power at bay, the Great Sage laughed in his face. He was a selfish tyrant who’d done nothing but bred more tyrants, trapped and frozen in his own doomed cycle. Because he could not right the wrongs of the past, could not right the future, and could not save his Master.

Wukong moved again, hacking as the blood built behind his throat, spine screaming against his shifts as muscles ripped. But Xuanzang had not died yet. And somehow, he knew. Xuanzang was alive and he would stay alive. And again, he heard that monk’s voice- “Wukong, do you know the story of Hanuman?”

Hanuman. They had been together by the creek, and the way Xuanzang had looked at him then, was as if it had just been them and all was forgiven. The moon had kissed the sky that night, in spite of the clouds and sprinkled stars. But he would never be forgiven. And that was just as well.

Stay alive, baldy. I’m- Splintered nails digging into rock, the monkey arched his back, teeth clenching and bones popping as blood spilled through the corners of his mouth.

Xuanzang flashed a crooked smile. “Lord Hanuman was a monkey.”

Five hundred years ago, he could do nothing against that mountain, but he had not been needed, had not thought himself needed. But Xuanzang needed him now.

“  Hanuman knew what had to be done. He lifted that mountain straight off the ground and carried it from the Himalayas, all the way across the lands of the west.”

The Tang priest’s words echoed in his head, that western tale looping again and again in his ears. For he had remembered every word, every gesture, and every look. Lord Hanuman was everything he was not, this Wukong believed, and even so, he thought of the Himalayas and the monkey that carried them over. But Hanuman was not a demon. He was a god.

And even so-

With a defiant cry, Wukong stood, back and shoulders bent with the mountains above, palms held up to keep the rocks at bay. He felt the blood rush in and out, plopping on earth and splashing from his flesh, bones cracking as he forced himself up, stabbing into tissue and tearing past lungs.

Even so, Wukong forced himself to do the same. I’m coming, baldy.

He took one step forward, heard the sound of bone popping through flesh, ignored the blood gathered between his teeth, and walked on. And with each heavy step, those mountains moved. Of its own accord, the cudgel shrunk and followed, at Wukong’s shadowed heels as the monkey stomped north, again, and again.

“Look at that, naughty priest- you reopened your wounds.”

Xuanzang sat still, refusing to utter a single grunt of pain as Huang Feng’s partner poked and prodded at his bleeding gashes.  Crown of bones jingling atop his head, the King of Spiritual Touch stooped over him and finished changing the dressings on damaged flesh. There was a crazed hunger in the demon’s eyes, something far wilder and more broken than the monk had ever seen. Every now and then, he’d stop and sniff him, all but salivating over the scent of the Tang priest.

And if not for the Yellow Wind Lord’s presence, Xuanzang was sure he would have been devoured by now. Either he or the tiger would have taken him and eaten his flesh, already half driven mad by the smell of his blood. But Huang Feng was a procedural devil, and there was something particularly cruel about how he handled these matters. Xuanzang would have much preferred to be eaten alive.

“Lingang, Stop molesting him,” Huang Feng said at last, “I have a job for you.”

“Are you jealous, my friend?” the other demon said, or rather, croaked.

Lion’s cape swaying, the King of Spiritual Touch pressed a head into the crook of Xuanzang’s neck, along the bruises left, and stole a final whiff. Satisfied, he sighed and let the Tang priest alone. Then, a glint of amusement in his eyes, he approached Huang Feng, robes rippling with his stride. Lingang placed lips against his lord’s neck, in the same spot he’d touched Xuanzang just before, and whispered, “Now we can share his scent.”

“You bastard,” Huang Feng moaned, he too intoxicated with the priest’s blood-scent.

And as he watched the two grope and grapple, Xuanzang almost wondered if his blood had another effect, for it seemed that the two were about to rip each other bare then and there. The lust was strong between, but a singular hatred permeated the air, and it told Xuanzang that the demons before him were not in love. There was a power struggle between them, a give-and-give and see-who-takes.

“Should I bind him, my lord?” the tiger asked, throwing Xuanzang’s robes back at him.

Pulling away from Lingang at last, the Yellow Wind Lord said, “No need. He won’t be going anywhere soon.”

Then he threw an arm around the vanguard’s shoulder, tugging him into a huddle with Lingang not far off. “Pipa can keep watch. You two go out and handle Great Sage Sun.”

“You’re sending them to die,” Xuanzang spat.

“Really?” Lingang said, “the centipede told us that ape’s not so hard to handle anymore.”

“He lied,” was the matter-of-fact reply.

“Holy pilgrims shouldn’t lie,” Huang Feng chastised, “but we’ll see who’s telling the truth soon enough.”

With a final smirk, he snapped his fingers and sent Xuanzang hurling towards the nearest wall. The monk’s snapped arm made contact with a- bang!- and crying out, he slid down, curled tight in gasping pain. Xuanzang stayed, cheek stuck to the ground, as he sucked in breaths left and right, fiery aches ringing from head to toe.

“You’re a mortal man,” Huang Feng said, “don’t forget that, priest.”

And then, he was gone, Lingang and the vanguard flanking him as he left. Alone, Xuanzang felt a chill creep down his spine, suddenly cold. Am I dying? Then he shook his head and forced himself up, left hand rubbing the loosened sling. No, he was very much alive, for the time being it seemed. And the chill came from the fact that it really was cold.

He was locked in a cavern along the highest ridge, caged in by stone bars at the cave’s mouth. Limping over, he knelt between the misshapen pillars and stared out, the view overlooking the shaking sea below, waves fighting waves, and dark clouds brewing above. It spoke of rain and a storm to come.

Xuanzang pulled his robes back on, sloppy and slow, as he thought of what to do from there. In truth, he did see what Huang Feng wished to do, for had he not lost a love too? And for a split second, back there, he’d meant to kill the demon where he stood. But he feigned ignorance- to admit he, Tang Sanzang, was as fickle as a devil, was a defeat he did not want to shoulder. The centipede had come to Huang Feng for justice, for those spiders slaughtered, and even now, Xuanzang felt a pang of guilt for what he could not save.

He had hoped to save Xiao San, had hoped to spare those spiders, and countless more, but in the end, human life had always weighed more. And in spite of all that, he’d wanted to save his disciples, a task that he perhaps failed long before. The failures hurt, more so than the wounds etched on his skin, and he dared not ask Lord Buddha for help, not when he had turned his back on Tathagata for this final stand.

Holding a hand to his side, Xuanzang glanced behind, at the sharp rocks poking along the ground. And thought. He would not let Huang Feng use him against Wukong, would not give those demons the satisfaction of his live flesh. But had he no other way?

Duan, what would you do?

Jiu Gong was nowhere in sight, and Ao Lie began to wonder if she’d opted out of the whole thing. He was again in the passageway of Vulture’s Peak, climbing along as he lead Qingfeng and Mingyue through, that little bird perched on the first servant’s shoulder.

“Master did not tell us where exactly he was kept,” Qingfeng said.

“Can’t we just guess?” Mingyue replied.

Ao Lie: “What did he write to you lot?”

“That he was with your band and shit. Told us to find the local earth deity, take us to Vulture’s Peak, and save the day,” Mingyue explained, “don’t tell him, but Master’s handwriting is really crappy.”

“Mingyue!” Qingfeng gasped, in offense.

Then, as if cued, Tudigong burrowed in ahead of them all, appearance so sudden Ao Lie nearly lost his grip and slipped. The cries behind him told him the servants felt the same.

“Follow me,” the earth god said, “I’ve found Zhenyuan the Immortal!”

Without waiting for their response, Tudigong hopped back into his self-made tunnel, and the three could only follow through. Looks were deceiving, Ao Lie realized, because the elder earth god was much faster than that trio combined. After several minutes of wading through dirt and debris, Ao Lie slid out of an opening at Tudigong’s prompt.

And found himself looking at Wujing, upside down and anger incarnate. Qingfeng and Mingyue ran to the patriarch immediately, Tudigong already sealing the hole from which they came.

“Master, we have arrived,” Qingfeng said, using a burst of chi to remove those chains.

Freed, the patriarch stood and stretched, before pulling his servants into an awkward embrace.

“Master, this doesn’t feel right,” Mingyue said, uneasy.

“I agree,” Qingfeng added.

Zhenyuanzi sighed in relief and said, “Good. I never want to hug either of you again.”

Then he released them, tore the talisman from Wujing’s throat, and broke his chains with a wave of both hands. “Qingfeng, Mingyue, excellent job! And of course-”

He turned and kowtowed at Tudigong. “Thank you, my friend.”

“It was no trouble at all,” the earth god said.

Beside them, Ao Lie helped Wujing to his feet, stepping aside when the third disciple rose to his full height, slightly dizzy from all that time upside down. Wujing cracked his neck left, then right, centered, and said, “About fucking time.”

“Where’s Master?” the dragon said, “and Second Brother?”

“Where’s eldest brother?” Wujing said without warning, “did you bring him here, asshole?”

At the mention of Wukong’s presence, Ao Lie brightened and said, “He’s on his way! And Master-”

“Fuck.” Friar Sand rubbed a hand over his tender chest, putting two and two together as the blood returned to his feet. “They took Baldy away, brat. They’re setting a trap for the boss.”

“My, my!” Tudigong said, white brows raised, “we best warn the Great Sage, then.”

“Yes, yes, let’s get on that,” Zhenyuanzi interjected, “Mingyue-”

The next order was promptly drowned out by the sound of Ao Lie arching into his dragon’s full shape, mane swooshing as he coiled in and whipped himself out, taking a good chunk of Vulture’s Peak with him as he fled in haste.

“Horse boy volunteered first,” Mingyue said.

“Brat, get back here!” Wujing cried at the opening Ao Lie left. Then, exasperated, he held up a hand and summoned his spade. Weapon flew into palm, and the fish said, or rather, growled, “I’ll go get him. And that fucking pig too.”

As Wujing jumped out, Zhenyuanzi tempered his breath and said, “Well, that leaves us with no pilgrims now. So let’s do this- Qingfeng, Mingyue, go find that traitorous vulture. I shall look for Master Sanzang, and Tudi-”

“Will find the children,” the earth god answered, already neck deep in a new burrow. Then he added, as an afterthought, “Tang monk is a dramatic one, isn’t he?”

Ying dragged himself away on bloodied hands, body sliding through dirt and grass as he balanced blood and tears. Jing was dead, and his death avenged, but now the Silver Horn King did not have time to mourn. He had a single task in mind: report to Huang Feng and have this torture ended there. The dark of night gave him cover, away from any more opponents lurking about.

“Bit off more than we could chew,” he heard himself mumble.

And- snap!- a fallen branch cracked behind him, followed by shape that thrust him under a crisp shadow the size of a hundred more.

“You sure did,” a voice said behind him, so low it was near a hiss.

Frozen, Ying turned around. Sun Wukong stood across, hunched with the weight of a mountain on his back, and miraculously upright, hands raised above his head. Drenched in blood, the monkey cracked a humorless grin, eyes and teeth shining against shadow and dark red, the picture of a demon born.

“And you’re right,” Wukong rasped, chest heaving as he spoke, “I do bleed. But I don’t like to.”

Then, with a sudden thrust, the mountain slipped from his back and slammed down, eclipsing Ying’s vision with nothing but black. Wukong caught his breath, dropped to all fours and hurled dry, and felt a wash of glee as he heard the crunch and splat of Ying’s body crushed. Muscles numb, the monkey blinked away the lightness in his head, and again pushed himself up.

His feet shifted left, then, and Wukong twisted out in time to avoid a claw to his throat. A tiger crouched before him, demon’s teeth bared as it dared him to fight on. Snarling back, the monkey yanked his staff from the ground and smacked the dirt between. The tiger swiped first, scratching that cudgel a good ten, twenty times as Wukong blocked and batted.

In the next move, Wukong threw the staff aside and tackled the tiger down. With a monkey’s screech, he pierced the tiger’s shoulder with his teeth, ripping past blood and fur as he bit and spat. Roaring, the demon raised an agonized claw and sliced his target from shoulder to waist. Wukong was forced off as the tiger slipped out, a trail of mingled blood pooling between.

“Where is he!?” the monkey snarled between gasps, “his blood’s on you!”

The tiger shifted into human form, nursed his injured shoulder, and growled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Body screaming as he rolled right, Wukong clambered again to his feet and lifted his cudgel, all senses gone save the drive to kill, kill, kill. The monkey baited, that tiger too crawled up and dashed away, eyes looking back as if beckoning Wukong to follow.

The monkey approached after, then stumbled in a bout of nerves protesting, and was met with the vision of flattened grass. When he once more forced himself from that pained stupor, Wukong found himself staring at a dim-lit figure, the shape of a man, painted face bright in the dark. The newcomer was leaning on a nine-toothed rake, settled in dusty white robes.

Zhu Bajie.

“You,” the monkey coughed, “where’s Master?”

“Alive, probably.”

Wukong struggled up, Bajie coming to his aid, grip sturdy and strong as he pulled the first disciple to his feet. Past the pig’s shoulder, he saw the beginning of a narrow creek, coated with glistening water, and looking much like poison in the moonless night.

“Say, you don’t look so good,” Bajie muttered, the monkey’s blood quickly staining his white sleeve.

“Neither do you,” Wukong shot back as he guided Bajie forward, both stumbling towards the sound of running water.

Bajie: “Maybe you should sit down?”

“Where’s Master?”

At that, Wukong felt a palm press against the hole beneath his ribs, where Jing had so harshly stabbed. Grunting, he held back a cry, and said, “Asshole, not there.”

“But you really don’t look well,” Bajie said, again pressing down, fingers joining as he squeezed the ravaged flesh. This time, Wukong did cry out.

“Fuck off!” he hissed, pushing Bajie away and stumbling off on his own.

The second disciple intercepted his path, rake twirling as he moved in front. “Give it a rest. We’ve done enough- I think it’s time we leave baldy be.”

Wukong stared, eyes struggling to stay open, wondering if he’d wound up in some troublesome dream. Had the pig said what he thought? But Wuneng had always been an inconvenient dolt.

Wukong: “Get out of my way!”

“You know what, I don’t want to.” Then Bajie grinned, no mirth to be found. “Besides, you’re not ‘eldest brother’ anymore, are you… Sun Wukong?”

Chapter Text

“What?” At a loss for breath, Wukong stared back, confusion giving way to fury , and said,  “You… have you lost it, asshole?”

Bajie cocked his head, grin near grimace, and spat out a chuckle. “No, no, horse groomer , I’m being very serious.”

And before the first disciple could react, Bajie’s fist flew his way, smashing into that nose with a hard- crunch!

“That was for what you did at Liu Mansion!” the pig snarled, pulling off as Wukong stumbled back, and back. He drove another fist forward, straight into the monkey’s injured side, and did not wait for the cry to follow.

“All those times you belittled me!”

And- crack!- he swung into the monkey’s jaw, followed by another punch that sent Wukong toppling down. The first disciple fell with a splash, all but slamming face-first into the running creek. He sputtered and coughed, and failed to stand. As he struggled to rise on splayed limbs, Bajie dug one foot into the monkey’s bleeding back, and kept him pinned.

“So fuck you!” the pig said, “you really think I couldn’t kill baldy if I wanted? No, it was because of you! You were always there, getting in my way, in our way!”

Wuneng summoned his rake with a livid growl, remembering every little insult and injury done, all he’d hated on the road west. And blood boiled, he said in spite, “This was the last thing I wanted to do, but you forced me! Nobody’s saving baldy now, especially not you! I’m quitting this fucking band!”

In a fit, he brought the rake down, its teeth scraping that monkey from shoulder to waist, nine furrows of red carved into skin. Wukong screamed aloud, overcome with pain anew, his cry snapping Bajie out of his violent daze. The pig blinked and looked down, his own hands bloodied as they pulled that rake, and below, Wukong lay, helpless as the water clouded pink. He had only ever entertained doing such a thing, but a moment’s spite was that and nothing more. Now that his hands had done that very thing, Bajie felt a panic seize, for he’d never thought he would get so very far.

To render the monkey immobile was all he needed, but now as he stared down, he wondered how far he’d been willing to go. Was murdering the first disciple truly his goal? Could he risk letting Pilgrim Sun leave? But could he bear to kill him there? And as these sudden thoughts paddled through, Wukong shot himself up in a loud spray of water and blood.

Slipping, Bajie fell back, rake dropped as the monkey surged forward, and- slam!- his head collided with the pig’s own in a burst of cracked red. Then Bajie hit the water with a cloud of stars, ears ringing from that harsh blow. When sense returned, he found himself staring down at the nine-pronged rake, his own weapon aimed above his throat. Wukong stood, eyes bulging with fiery rage, and teeth bared in a twisted growl.

“Zhu Bajie,” the monkey said, deep and scratched, as if ready to tear the pig apart then and there, “I’m going to cut off your nose and make you eat it. Then I’m sticking this rake up your fucking ass and skinning you alive!”

All but roaring, Wukong poised the rake back and prepared to make true on his promise there. But before the weapon could touch new flesh, it was shoved aside by a tilted spade.

Those prongs sinking into a fallen log, Wukong turned to see Friar Sand. Wujing was crouched to his level, breathing harsh and eyes harsher still.

“Boss,” the fish said, “damned baldy wouldn’t want this.”

Wukong gulped and dropped the rake, eyes dulling as if Wujing’s words had fallen through. Then he kicked Bajie in the ribs, snarling as the pig yelped, and jumped up in time to smack Wujing upside the head. As the fish reeled, Wukong pushed past his hulking form, hand outstretched to collect the as-you-would staff.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?” he said, between every ache, “you two assholes planned this the whole time, eh?”

The three disciples looked between each other, silent and grim, each demon with a ghost to spill. Another beat passed until Wujing opened his mouth, and quiet, said, “Yes.”

Wukong threw his head back and laughed, howling with rude cackles as broken ribs rubbed and rubbed. “Guess Old Sun was just too blind to see it, too proud, huh? Demons can’t be trusted. I should’ve known. I am one.”

Wujing: “Boss-”

Wukong: “Just go, both of you.”

Bajie said nothing, eyes unreadable as he looked to the fallen rake.

“I’m not leaving baldy behind,” Wujing said, “what’s past is past, damn it. You need us to-”

“I don’t need any of you,” Wukong hissed, “so you two just get out of here and stop pulling these fucking stunts.”

“Boss, stop being an asshole!”

“All demons are assholes! I’m no different.” That said, the monkey began walking away, one heavy step at a time as his damaged form limped past water and again onto dry land. “And you bastards can go- you have your freedom. I’ll get Master without you.”

At the sight of his wounded backside, Wujing paled and looked at Bajie, gaze accusing as he said, “What were you trying to do, asshole, kill him!?”

Bajie: “I’m-”

The pig never finished, because Wujing’s foot collided with his mouth, and as the second disciple prepared to speak again, the fish delivered a good two kicks more.

“What’s wrong with you, asshole!?” Wujing said, “and I get blamed too, what the fuck? You’re the only asshole here!”

“You didn’t have to say you knew, you know!”

“But I don’t lie!”

“Well then, whose fault is that- OW!”

As Wujing continued his assault, Wukong turned a blind eye and kept on, fueled by adrenaline and the pain in every hair, quite sure he could keep going so long as he kept himself mobile. He pushed Bajie and Wujing out of his mind, bitterly ignoring what emotions his former comrades wrought, and maneuvered his way past another series of high trees.

“They can die, for all I care,” Jiu Gong said bitterly, hoping Tathagata would hear her rant. But she was met with not even an owl’s hoot.

Robes dragging, the vulture perched atop a mossy rock, a strange irritation gnawing at her chest. And nervous, she did what she’d always done in times of crisis- she stuck her nails between her teeth and bit, chewing as she calmed those nerves. The nails were sharp, as her poor tongue learned. But that was no concern of hers. None of this was.

Like that little shit’s going to one-up me, she thought. And to spite that little dragon, she’d hightailed out of Vulture’s Peak and left his pilgrims to rot. She’d gladly let them die with that lot of unlucky children, Tathagata’s favor be damned.

Then why are you still here?

She pulled her hand away, the nail on her index finger half its previous length. Vulture’s Peak was a short flight away, and Heaven Reaching River was still in sight so long as she stayed in these dark woods. I don’t know.

She’d served Lord Buddha, as had her mother, and her mother before. Their line was devout, pure, and wholly dedicated to the enlightened path. That had been her once, as true and good as any of Tathagata’s servants. But she’d wanted more, wanted a morsel of acknowledgement that she’d done well, that he’d loved her as much as she loved all he was.

And in the end, she broke away because she had never been so devout-- it was a chipped mask, and under it all, she’d only lived to please all else. Her mother, her grandmother, those high celestials, humankind, and Lord Buddha himself. And Jiu Gong stood for none of those things, and it was only when she acknowledged that she served none but herself and herself only, that freedom came.

Perhaps she had taken it too far. Now she was no different than a common demon, sent to repent by the Tang priest’s side. And even so, she had not fallen quite so far- for all her crimes and sins, and deaths before, Jiu Gong had remained a golden vulture, one who still had reservations about letting her sworn enemies die.

She bowed her head, realizing now that Xiao San should have lived. Red Boy had been as devilish as a demon came, but Xiao San had not been like either of them. Xiao San would have wanted to repent, would have wanted to love, would have wanted to be by his side. But she’d died, used to the end, unloved and crushed to white bone. And it had instead been the vulture, traitorous, petty, and mad, who’d lived and received this second chance. Real fair of you, Tathagata, real fair.

Xiao San would have saved the children at the very least. Jiu Gong did not know what she herself would do, and curiouser still, wondered why she thought of that demon now. Because she’d indeed never cared before.

“Big brother!”

Wukong stopped in his tracks, eyes widening when he found himself in the middle of a dark clearing, that damned creek far behind. And running towards him on a limping leg was Ao Lie, pale face all but glistening in the dark. The dragon’s eyes were bright with unbridled relief, but his features quickly turned to worry when he closed their gap.

“Big brother, are you-”

“I’m fine,” was the rasped reply, and just as Ao Lie was about to accuse him of lying, the monkey stumbled and fell to his knees. The dragon caught him before his head could follow the rest of that collapse, and said, “No, no you’re not.”

Then a hand wound around Ao Lie’s own, squeezing tight as the monkey said, “You find Master?”

“Zhenyuanzi will. He has his servants with him, and the earth god too!”

“Then why aren’t you with them?”

“I needed to find you. Big brother-”

“Damn it, Bailong! Who gives a fuck about me, that sorry lot needs you more!”

After his outburst, Wukong climbed out of Ao Lie’s arms, rising to a half-hunch as he leaned over the slacking staff. A steady stream of blood rolled down that cudgel, dark and slick, and far too much for Ao Lie’s comfort.

“But it’s a trap!” the prince said, “big brother, you’ve done enough! We can handle the rest. You need to stay here.”

“Shut up! You see a tiger around?”

As Wukong began his frantic search, Ao Lie looked upon the first disciple’s shallow breaths, that body trembling with each step, clothes stained with red wounds, blood near ink in the night. And looking at that blood-smeared face, Ao Lie couldn’t help but think the monkey looked worse now than he ever did at Wuzhuang Temple and Mount Kunlun too.

Ao Lie: “You’re walking into an ambush, big brother! We need to ambush them , not the other way around.”

Wukong turned and glared, that murderous look enough for Ao Lie to quiet and gulp. Seeing the fear in Ao Lie’s eyes, Wukong felt himself soften and sigh.

Wukong: “Look at me, Bailong. What else can they do to me?”

He turned back around and again took to limping steps. “You just watch your leg and go back to Zhenyuan. Get baldy out if it’s the last thing you do.”

Whatever Ao Lie said, the monkey did not hear, his attention caught by fresh red on the ground, devil’s blood and decidedly not his own. It fell in splotches, painting a trail that wound past this clearing and into yonder woods. The tiger was near, and that was all the drive Wukong would need. As if zapped, he moved on, as quick as that damaged body would allow.

But Ao Lie did not obey. The dragon clenched his fists and followed after, Wukong’s own blood mixing in with that false trail, for he had said, “I don’t want you to die,” and he meant to keep each word true.

Xuanzang shivered, a broken slice of jagged rock bouncing upon his palm, skin chafed with wind and salt. He closed his fingers around that rock and squeezed so tight that blood followed through; only when the sting was too much to bear did he let go. Death, he certainly did not fear, and it seemed that he had no other recourse to take. He poised that rock over his side, jabbing against fabric as he imagined flesh pierced.

He bit his bottom lip, the consequences of what he was about to do again slipping in. If Huang Feng found him dead, he and his companions would be refused the Tang priest’s living flesh and all the power within. Those demons would be unable to pit his life against Wukong’s, for Xuanzang would be long gone. But his flesh was holy nonetheless, and whatever it denied Huang Feng in life, it would compensate for him in death.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

He’d spoken with Jiu Gong before, and the vulture had concluded that his capture was the likeliest outcome. What happened next was anyone’s guess, though the monk knew his death and evisceration was ever imminent. He had planned for it and steeled himself against all pain. And even if those demons became nigh unstoppable, they’d have no more need for the river’s blood sacrifices.

Xuanzang was but a man, and there were many more men, better men who would not have let it come to this. Then he would trust that new man, the next one Lord Buddha would pick, and take whatever punishment Tathagata saw fit.

And yet the idea of Huang Feng using his blood to harm Wukong in any way set the monk on edge. Xuanzang could not be complicit in such a thing, and there lay his dilemma in. He again crawled to the cavern’s edge and looked out between its stone bars. If he thrust this body into that violent sea and disappeared, then it would not be for naught. Xuanzang dropped the rock, heard it clatter, and delivered a final gulp.

“Duan, forgive me,” he whispered.

Xuanzang stood and backed away, step by step, until he was ready to charge and ram into the stone ahead. If fortune, or misfortune, was on his side, the rock would break and he would plummet swiftly down. Wukong, don’t fault me.

And he ran, a singular target in his mind, but a shout- “Master Sanzang!”- jolted him from that path, and when instinct told him to look back, Xuanzang fell in a clumsy crash. Shoulder throbbing like never before, the monk groaned and picked himself up, confused eyes locking onto perhaps the last person he’d expected to see.

“Patriarch!?” he said.

“Hold still, I’m here to retrieve you!” Zhenyuanzi replied, having appeared in the shadowy corridor Huang Feng had disappeared down.

That said, the patriarch came forward, only to cry in surprise when a shock of red shoved him back a good few feet. Beard frayed, he stood and coughed, tiny currents zapping to and fro in front.

Xuanzang: “Patriarch, what happened!?”

“Not to worry, Master Sanzang! It seems Lord Huang’s smarter than we thought. He’s set up a shield to repel celestials.”

Then the patriarch sighed, unsure if he should laugh or cry, and said, “Normally, it works the opposite way. His magic’s not bad for a demon if he managed to do this.”

“Can you get around it?”

Zhenyuanzi sat, crossed his legs, and held up both palms, fingers closing and opening as he signed his spell and brought them down. A wave of gold chi circled around him and converged below. He pushed his hands again and that wave shot forward, a surge of magic made to repel the demon’s own. As gold met red, Xuanzang saw the patriarch’s beard fly back and his robes near rip.

“I can try!”

“Try?”

“This would be easier if we had a demon around, but your disciples chose now to abandon us all.”

And face unwilling, the patriarch added, “It was a shield made by two. To counter it, we’d at least need two celestials. But for now, it’s just me. If nothing else, I can weaken it.”

Zhenyuanzi grit his teeth and all but slammed his hands into the ground, gold burning white as it erupted over red. Behind that shield, Xuanzang shut his eyes, blinded by the lights of chi, the heat so strong he felt robes singe.

“You’re really shameless, you know that!” Wujing said, ramming another fist into Bajie’s face.

The pig yelped, dodging when Wujing struck again, and jammed the tip of his rake into the third disciple’s chest. Wujing grunted and Bajie stepped on his foot before following with a knee to the throat. Gasping, Wujing cupped both hands together and clubbed Bajie in the head. They fell together in a graceless heap.

“Oh? I’m the shameless one? Well, I don’t buy your holy act one bit!” Bajie growled as he climbed over Wujing, both trying to shove the other into water below.

“I have standards!” Wujing shot, flipping on his belly and landing Bajie below.

As Wujing held his head underwater, Bajie gurgled and said, “It was your idea! You’re always going on- and ughgughugh- on, about killing bald-ugh!”

“Asshole!”

“Bastard!”

“I’m not a bastard, you are!”

Wujing kept his grip strong, intent on letting the pig drown as Bajie’s hands clawed and scratched at those blue wrists.

Wujing: “After everything eldest brother did at Wuzhuang, this is what you do!?”

Bajie’s face rose at last, mouth rapidly opening and closing as he screamed for breath. He pushed Wujing off with a kick, and jumped to his feet, rake again in hand.

Bajie: “So what?! He takes a few hits, and that makes up for everything!? He did it for baldy, he doesn’t give a fuck about us!”

Wujing raised his spade and the two squared off, circling one another and neither willing to budge one way.

“Don’t forget what got your stupid vase broken in the first place,” Wuneng hissed.*

“He’s changed,” the third disciple said, “I learned that from Wuzhuang.”

And just as Bajie tightened his grip in an attempt to strike, Wujing lowered his spade and sighed, “And maybe I changed too.”

Friar Sand rose to his full height, spade pushed to the side, and turned away, not bothering to meet the pig’s eyes when he said, “We all have, except you, second brother.”

Wujing walked away, splash by splash until he was out of the creek, resolve hardened and nothing spared for Zhu Bajie. Behind him, the pig sunk to his knees, aching all over and left with nothing but one rake.

The tiger lay in the shadow of a half-buried rock, eyes narrowed as he licked his wounds, that trail of fresh blood leading from the grass to his torn neck. Covered in broken armor and gold fur dipped red, Wukong loomed over him, one eye shut and cudgel stabbing ground.

“I’m here, asshole,” the monkey growled, “you got what you wanted.”

“Don’t waste your time on that minion, Great Sage,” a voice said, cracked and guttural.

Wukong turned around, bright eyes boring into him when the newcomer stepped out from between two trees, lion’s pelt bristling under wind and crown of bones sitting atop his head. The demon held up a weapon of bronze, its nine faces glowing under the light of both eyes.

“It’s me you wanted to meet,” the demon finished, “King Lingang, of Heaven Reaching River.”

Wukong: “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Then the monkey pointed at the lion’s head and said, “But that asshole there, I knew him once, the Lion Lord. You always do this, kill your friends and wear their skin?”

“You’re really talkative for someone half dead,” Lingang said, “the lion was an enemy, not a friend. And because I respect you so, Great Sage, I’m going to ask if you want to be an enemy or a friend.”

Wukong snorted. “Yeah? What’s that entail?”

“To be our friend, let me on my way. In fact, Lord Huang would be delighted to have you in his keep. And we’d all get a cut of the Tang priest’s flesh.”

The monkey looked pensive, as if contemplating the offer, and waited a beat before he said, “Sounds real good. Thanks for asking.”

Lingang grinned, stepped forward, and opened his mouth.

Wukong: “But not a chance, asshole. Only thing you’re getting is a taste of my cudgel.”

And true to his word, the monkey struck out, Lingang barely raising that hammer in time to block the incoming blow. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, again and again while their masters pounded, blocked, and pounded on. After a good few rounds of back-and-forth strikes, Wukong dodged a swing of the hammer and swept a foot below the demon’s legs. Lingang fell, crown knocked off, and the monkey came at him with the staff head-on.

And again, the demon parried, just enough to avoid a crushed skull. Wukong pulled back and caught his breath, speed hampered by fresh wounds and the loss of new blood. It was not a moment lost to Lingang.

“Tired already, Great Sage?” he mocked, “I heard you could go on for at least a hundred rounds. Then again, I’ve never met you.”

“You won’t last a hundred rounds!”

Wukong pounced, demon’s teeth bared, and slammed that staff into Lingang’s gut. The demon coughed blood, footing lost as he tumbled back. Wukong thrust the cudgel down again, Lingang rolling away to escape a blow that would have powdered his skull. Clutching that pelt, he rose to his feet and beat back the staff with his bronze hammer, sending a blow of nine Wukong’s way.

“Lord Huang spoke so kindly of you!” he said as the monkey dodged, “he’ll be so disappointed!”

“Go to hell!”

Wukong jumped and struck, the hammer spinning as it met his blow, windmill motions burning spark and fur. Wukong’s feet landed on grass, heels skidding to a halt while he struggled for breath. In that instant, Lingang leaped forward, hammer fiercely ramming into the as-you-would staff when Wukong raised it in an effort to block. Arms occupied, the monkey failed to react at the blow coming his way.

An elbow rammed into his punctured side, digging into the wound with an angry push. Wukong heard himself cry out, limbs loosened enough to lower that staff, and was swiftly knocked back with a hammer to the jaw. He felt blood shoot out, and balance gone, the monkey fell on his back. Lingang jumped atop him, leaving no time for counters, and brought the hammer across his head, raking blood as its nine faces swept through.

“Great Sage, Great Sage!” the demon howled as he smashed on, crunching collarbone and shattering chest, “what a fine joke!”

He raised the hammer to strike again when a fierce blow rammed into the back of his head (“Let him go!”). That was all the window Wukong needed to rise-- sputtering blood, the monkey pushed himself up, nails digging through fabric and into Lingang’s skin as he tackled the demon down. Then it was the Great Sage’s fury upon him, landing fist after fist on Lingang’s face, all but pounding the features in.

Ao Lie crouched before them, transfixed at the sight, his foot still reeling from the kick he’d thrown Lingang’s way. And yet the sound of that hammer crunching Wukong’s flesh was still fresh in his mind. The sound of Wukong’s knuckles against Lingang’s head was no better. This was a demon’s fight and a prince of the sea had no place in it, he knew, but now he did, and so, he did.

Those fists only halted when the tiger roared, so deafening that Ao Lie felt his hair fly back.

“Monkey, look!” the vanguard barked, assuming human shape as he took hold of the fallen bronze hammer.

The tiger flashed it up, its nine faces forming a prism of blurred white light. And in it, Ao Lie saw their Master’s form, that monk frantically crawling through his prison and worse for wear.

“Step away,” Lingang said, face a gory sight of red, “that ridge is bound to my will.”

He flicked his wrist and Ao Lie saw Xuanzang gasp, several rocks flying his way, each piece leaving a jagged cut on his skin.

“Or I can do so much worse,” he finished.

Eyes crazed, Wukong snarled and raised his fist again, ready to end the demon then and there. But Lingang held up a hand and glared back.

“Should I snap his neck next? Maybe send a rock through his spine?” the demon said, not a hint of mockery in his words.

“He’s bluffing!” Ao Lie said.

Ignoring the dragon’s lie, Wukong lowered his arm, growled, and slipped off Lingang’s form. Hacking red, the demon sat up, a hand held against his aching chest, and said, “Kick your staff away.”

Ao Lie: “Don’t do it!”

Wukong paled, quelling the rage as he stood, wishing then that Ao Lie would abandon him too. But such a thing was not to be; the dragon had saved his life seconds before, and seconds after, he was not so sure.

“Big brother-”

Ao Lie approached, ready to fight and burst into the dragon’s scaled form. Wukong did not wait to hear the rest. Without looking his way, the monkey said, “freeze,” and flicked two fingers that kept Ao Lie stunned. The prince stood rooted, eyes frantic when he realized his muscles would not twitch. His mind went afire with curses when the monkey did just as Lingang asked: he nudged the cudgel and sent it rolling back.

Wukong: “Come on, asshole. Unless you’re a coward.”

Teeth grit, the monkey forced that armor to recede, fur again hidden and hair tangled dark when he stepped back into human shape.

“So you really are a good little monkey now,” that demon said, venom on his tongue.

He picked up the hammer and brought it upon the first disciple’s frame, Wukong making no move to soften that blow. His blood slipping onto grass, Wukong steadied his feet and glanced down, a misshapen dent left in the shoulder where that weapon had struck. Forced to look on, Ao Lie attempted to scream when the hammer fell again.

Xuanzang ducked for cover, startled by the loosened rocks that had so recently rained upon his head. Squinting, he looked across, to where Zhenyuanzi crouched, the patriarch’s skin shining with sweat as he worked upon that spell. The shield of chi flicked gold and red in turn, rapidly swaying between ying and yang as it pushed and cowered front and back.

The Sodding Palm would have been able to break this spell; Xuanzang believed this fully and it did nothing but scratch at his chest. Even if the centipede’s binds somehow lifted and his arm healed through, the monk had a feeling Tathagata would not stop to help him once more. The Buddha’s Palm had been a test, a skill that came to him when his mind was most clear and his path bright clean. If the heart pounding within was any indication, Xuanzang knew his soul was far from cleared and if nothing else, a muddied mess.

Do you regret choosing me, Lord Buddha? He thought, embittered by a sudden helplessness.

“Almost have it, Master Sanzang!” Zhenyuanzi called, “just stay put a little while longer!”

“I can’t really go anywhere else, patriarch.”

“True!”

“And what d’you almost have, old man?” another voice said, dangerously high.

The scorpion appeared from behind a spot of debris, scurrying until she paused at the edge of her master’s shield. She cracked her neck and shifted, limbs slowing to four and hair slinking to a curved waist as she took human shape. The woman stood, hips swaying under tight robes, a red mask clinging from forehead to nose, leaving those features covered save a pair of blood lips, as plush as they were threatening.

“Don’t you dare,” Zhenyuanzi warned her as the scorpion smirked, “I can make you pay dearly if-”

“Bye bye!”

The demon opened her mouth in a toothy grin and stuck two fingers in between those teeth. Skin grazed, she dragged the blood out, and in a precise strike, pressed her digits into the crackling ground. A line of fiery pink zipped past the patriarch’s shield and struck him square in the chest, twisting every piece of gold and red his way. Spasming, Zhenyuanzi was carried up by shocks of blue, and was only able to utter a final cry of “Master Sanzang, I’ll come back!” before he was thrust over the scorpion’s head.

The patriarch flew past Xuanzang in a blur and crashed through the cavern’s stone bars. Crying his name, Xuanzang crawled after and watched in horror as Zhenyuanzi tumbled down Vulture’s Peak, his shadow reduced to nothing but ash. There was no hint of a body hitting stone or water, and in that instant, Xuanzang could only pale as he gathered the remains of ash. Trembling, he felt a lump collect in his throat and the familiar feeling of tears unshed.

“You killed him,” he said in disbelief, eyes tilting to meet the Pipa demon’s, “he was only trying to help! What kind of cold-blooded creature-”

“My blood’s real warm!” the scorpion laughed, “and old man was stupid for touching that shield. If little old me could kill him, then he deserved to die.”

Before the monk could spit out more rage, the scorpion had pulled him into her grip, rummaging hands through his smooth scalp. She sniffed at his chest, sharp nails digging into his fresh dressings, and said, “Oh, oh, your blood’s so nice, I wanna eat you up right now! But Lord Huang’s so slow!”

As she moaned on, Xuanzang shoved her back and wriggled out of that loosened grip. Hardened by the patriarch’s death, he snatched the discarded piece of sharp stone, and backed away, breaths leaving in weighted heaves.

“Stay away from me,” the monk hissed, pressing the piece to his throat and digging until beads of blood gathered, “or you’re taking the blame for this.”

“You are the Nine-Headed Golden Vulture, are you not?”

Startled, Jiu Gong turned from her perch on the rock and was met with the sight of two children staring up, one markably more patient than the other. Judging from their clean clothes, she assumed these were not Heaven Reaching’s sacrifices, and their aurora betrayed a lack of demonic spirit. In fact, neither boy gave off a child’s chi in the least, and if she had to guess, she would pin them at one thousand, give or take.

“What’s it to you?” she said.

“Our Master, Zhenyuan the Immortal has sent us after you,” the first boy said, “Tang Sanzang is in need of our assistance.”

“We’re his servants,” the second said, “Mingyue.”

“And Qingfeng,” the first one finished.

Jiu Gong looked down at them, nodded in all seriousness, and said, “Wow, I don’t care.”

She clicked her tongue and hopped off that rock, yellow robes swaying as she made to take off, but found herself tugged back by a foot on that dress. Qingfeng stood firm behind her, palms raised as he said, “I cannot allow that. My Master has given us a task and we must carry through.”

“That’s right!” Mingyue added as he blocked her path in front, “even if we have to beat you blue!”

That brief project with Red Boy aside, Jiu Gong had never been fond of children, mortal or otherwise. And she was even less fond of adults who looked like children- and this, now this, was the pinnacle of irritation. Sneering, the vulture pulled her robe back and watched as Qingfeng slid. She stuck out a foot and kicked him towards Mingyue, both servants toppling over the other as she raised her hands, a flame of chi in each.

Jiu Gong: “Then tell that geezer to fuck off!”

She fired, with every intention to blast both heads to smithereens, and cackled as the servants yelped and ducked for cover.

Mingyue: “Fuck!”

The hammer rained down, each blow tripled twice as the nine sides spun and smashed, Lingang’s chi pouring into his weapon and that brow heavy with bloodied sweat. Wukong knelt underneath, knees pressing grass and fingers spread through dirt. Again and again the weapon struck, crushing bone and flesh as blood splattered out. It pounded shoulder to shoulder and head to chest, jolting the earth with every blow that fell. The monkey hacked red, coughs muffling his cry when Lingang’s next strike landed on broken scapulae, ripping Erlang Shen’s handiwork and leaving those wounds twice their opened size.

Ao Lie’s eyes followed the hammer as it crashed with precision each time, Lingang’s strength growing with every swing, as if Wukong’s pain was its very source. Bronze soaked in crimson, the hammer collided with the monkey’s head, making a sound not unlike iron on stone. How long the beating had gone on, Ao Lie did not now, but he knew it had gone on long enough and if not for his frozen muscles, he would have charged and torn that demon apart. He felt his nostrils flare, the nose all he could move, seething with white hot fury as he saw the monkey fall.

Wukong hit the grass coughing, blood bursting from his mouth as it surged up the throat, leaving streams of red rolling from lip to cheek. He felt what remained of his ribs break apart, bruising lungs and stabbing through, that hammer having left no part unbruised and razed anything the mountains had spared. Caught between bile and blood, he could only gasp and heave as the pain kept him pinned. But Lingang was quick to follow, knee digging into the hole under the monkey’s ribs as he again loomed above Wukong’s prone form.

“Lord Huang said you had an iron-clad frame,” Lingang said between pauses of breath, eyes bright with adrenaline, “but his memory must be wrong.”

His free hand snatched a fistful of torn fabric from the monkey’s scarf and yanked, lifting Wukong’s head by a good few inches. Wukong gasped from the movement, eyes shut tight as he continued to wheeze blood.

Lingang: “I almost feel guilty, Great Sage. How about this, I’ll trade this lion skin for ape skin when we’re done here. Maybe even a dragon pelt.”

The demon pulled Wukong farther, until their noses near bumped, the monkey groaning with each strained wound. One eye struggled open as the first disciple thrust an arm up, pressing a bruised hand against Lingang’s chin, grip so tight the jaw almost cracked.

“Touch my little brother,” he muttered, “and I’ll skin you .”

With a harsh snarl, Lingang wrestled out of Wukong’s grip, that scarf ripping as he stumbled back. The monkey fell again, glaring weakly as more blood escaped. Coughing, the King of Spiritual Touch swung the hammer over his shoulder, towered over the helpless demon, and said, “You can still move. Let’s fix that!”

The weapon came down and crushed the monkey’s kneecap in a fierce crunch. And in a full swing, it circled back and rammed into that bloodied torso, Wukong again hacking blood as the blow fell through.

Big brother! Ao Lie tried to scream, nerves afire with the need to move, because the first disciple could not take another blow. He simply could not, this Ao Lie finally knew, and it spurred him to move when the hammer raised again. Gritting his teeth against fire and pain, the dragon forced his nerves to unwind that body free. With a gasp, he tore away from the monkey’s spell and rushed forward, intent on preventing that final hit.

And- wham!- the King of Spiritual Touch fell, side slamming into dirt as his mouth bit grass, a sharp pool of blood gathered beneath his shape, as if the pelt itself had died again.

Ao Lie tripped over the body, tongue still twisted and limbs numb from that spell. He crawled to his knees and stared, eyes widening when he saw a thousand or so little pricks of fur wedged in the demon’s chest, rivulets of blood gushing from where they pierced.

“H- how?” Lingang gasped, body twitching and alight with pain.

Wukong: “Ol’ Huang never tell you? I love a good fucking prank.”

A hand pressed to his chest, Wukong sat up and winced, an ugly grin breaking across his bloodied face.

“You got so close,” the monkey teased, “gave me so many generous hits. I had to return the favor, ya know?”

For every blow that Lingang had sent Wukong’s way, he’d left himself open for attack, vulnerable to every strand of hair the monkey had blown into his chest. And only at the very end, when Wukong deemed his attack enough to kill, did he change those hairs to steel pricks and let them stab in. It was a move fueled with spite and the guarantee of a death most unswift. Ao Lie realized this with a mouth agape, and looking at Lingang’s disbelieving face, he knew the demon felt the same.

Then that demon laughed, wet and dirty, chuckling on dying words as he said, “Well played, Great Sage! So you’re still a dirty demon after all.”

Wukong casually blew another hair his way, the strand piercing Lingang’s throat like needle through cloth. The demon gurgled on blood, eyes dulling as those pricks sunk farther in, poking through the very skin of that ancient heart.

“Dying at your hand,” Lingang gasped, “I’ll take. But I’d thought it’d end like this. So-”

He lifted a trembling hand, one bony finger tilted up at the moonless sky. “I’ll leave my final mark tonight.”

“Just shut up and die already,” the monkey spat.

Frowning, the demon said, “Then look up. The river’s flood, that’ll be my last breath.”

Wukong crept towards Lingang, a fiery twitch in his eye, and placed both hands against the frame of the demon’s face, fingers deep in hair. Lingang shut his eyes, death accepted, and uttered not a single word as the monkey snapped his neck left. Boneless, the demon fell, lion’s pelt falling away as he turned into a silent pile of golden scales, a mere fish withered and dead. Wukong glowered at that corpse, still seething as he attempted to stay upright.

Wukong: “You piece of shit.”

Ao Lie turned his eyes above, watching as the clouds gathered from afar, gray and black in the night, potent with unborn rain and clapping thunder. It was not the image of a dragon’s tantrum or nature’s whim-- it was the curséd blood of unwilling innocents and a bitter devil, Lingang’s spirit bound to the river he so tightly claimed. And in his spirit dwelled hundreds of slaughtered souls. Now the prince saw Heaven Reaching River feed that growing mass, the sky fertile with coming storm.

“What’s going to happen?” Ao Lie asked, more to himself than anyone else.

But Wukong answered, finally tearing his eyes away from the goldfish, “River’s flooding. Nothing’s holding it back anymore.”

“But the villages and Huang Tian, they’ll all be destroyed!”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

As they conversed, Wukong saw a flash of swishing tail, the vanguard already waist deep in shadow and about to slip off into the night. In a fit of rage, Wukong jumped to his feet and made to take chase, shoulder slipping over Ao Lie’s head as he pursued. But the tiger had vanished by then, and as soon as he’d stood after, Wukong felt his leg give away, the crushed knee all it took to drag him back down.

The monkey hit the dirt again, everything a blur and only Ao Lie’s cry of “big brother!” loud enough to hum through his ears. Distraught, the dragon rolled Wukong onto his back, seized by freezing panic when he saw the monkey’s eyes roll back.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” the scorpion said, not daring to move an inch from where she stood. “Aren’t you bored, all this standing around?”

Xuanzang had backed himself against the bars of rock, the jagged piece still slanted against his throat, willing himself to slice at any unseen moment. Outside Vulture’s Peak, he heard a harsh boom, the first cry of thunder come.

“No, because I’m an interesting person,” the monk replied, half in jest, “but I won’t say so because I’m low key.”

For once, in a very long time, he felt a surge of power on his side, no demon or buddha to lend their strength. He stood as a man, mortality his weapon, and his only strength the blessing to have been born of flesh and blood. Xuanzang looked to the gap Zhenyuanzi had made in his tumble. He shut his eyes, purged all thought, and dove through.

He did not meet the cut of wind or cold of sea.

Xuanzang was pushed back in with a sharp- zap! -body thumping forward with a clatter, shoulder smoking with the smell of charred flesh, the demon’s shield flaring a second’s red. The pain not yet registered, he could only stare at the wound and mutter, “How?”

“Oh, that smells good!” the scorpion whined, and with a cock of her head, said, “didn’t you already know? Lord Huang’s shield keeps celestials out and in!”

“I’m just a man,” Xuanzang said in disbelief.

“Quit playing dumb, priest. Everyone knows you’re Buddha’s own.”

Xuanzang furrowed his brow, a crash of lightning flooding the cavern white, and heard the demon say, “You’re the Golden Cicada.”

There was a dampness in the air, a bitter coldness to it that told him it would soon rain, and in the rustling wind, all he could hear were two voices blending into one. Wukong felt his eyes stretch open, heavy and dull, the figures of Xiao Hua and Xiao Wa blurring before him with cries of, “big brother, big brother, wake up, big brother, please…”

His eyes fell closed again, and opened when he remembered where he lay-- Xiao Hua and Xiao Wa were dead, and he- Ao Lie’s face came into view, stricken with a panicked relief. Bailong, Wukong strained to say, but all that came out was a pitiful groan. Ao Lie was kneeling by the monkey’s side, hands and robes stained with red from his haphazard attempts to heal and stem. At a loss, he clutched Wukong’s hand and stammered, “Y- you’re not healing, big brother. I tried everything, I don’t have enough chi, I’m sorry- I-”

“Bailong,” the monkey managed to croak out, his throat again willing to work, “it’s alright.”

“There’s so much blood,” Ao Lie said, voice cracking, his frantic eyes on the verge of tears, “big brother, I don’t know what to do.”

Wukong forced himself up, every nerve screaming as he sat hunched, and again said, “It’s alright.”

He pulled Ao Lie forward, pressed the dragon’s head against his broken shoulder, and held him still, one trembling hand stroking that pale hair.

“I’m fine,” the monkey whispered, and Ao Lie crumbled when he heard those words, breaking into airy sobs as he clung onto Wukong’s frame.

“No, you’re not!” the dragon cried, “you were never fine, big brother, I’m sorry!”

Wukong dismissed him with a cough of words, rasped and worn,“Quit whining. My shit’s got nothing to do with you.”

It was the truth, he knew, for he’d known what Puti said to be true, and he’d chosen to come- in the end, he’d always known it would end up like this, and as with all things the Great Sage Equaling ever did, he’d sealed that fate with a simple so be it . He flicked away the dragon’s tears with a scrape of knuckle and made to stand.

“Come on,” he said, “we better stop that flood before it fucks all of us.”

But Ao Lie did not help him up as he’d come to expect. Wukong fell, hissing as both knees slammed, and surprised, looked up to see the prince unmoving. Ao Lie met his gaze, face paler than ever before, made whiter still by the streaks of salt, and shook that head.

“Not ‘we,’” the dragon said, “I’ll stop it. Big brother, you stay here.”

Whatever sheen of calm had been over the monkey’s eyes broke then, replaced with the familiar fire he’d shown when Ao Lie had first provoked his ire. Ao Lie gulped, the gravity of what he’d said dawning in his mind, and still, he stayed his ground, choice made even as Wukong cursed his name.

“Don’t be an idiot!” the first disciple snapped.

“I know what to do.”

The prince backed away, a foot out of reach just as Wukong yanked on the edge of his sleeve. Features still twisted in a mixture of rage and disbelief, the monkey said, “You know, you know what to do? What could you possibly fucking do besides die!?”

Wukong pulled that sleeve, the fabric ripping as Ao Lie forced himself back, and said with one lip quivering, “I have four and a half transformations.”

“The fuck-!”

“-And that’s all I need.”

Wukong slid against grass, hair again blending with dirt when his weight toppled down, balance lost with Ao Lie’s refusal to budge. The dragon continued moving back, figure shrinking with each step, and in a fit of desperation, Wukong stood to follow. He managed one step before those legs buckled, shoulders following with a sudden- whump!

Ao Lie: “I know what you all think of me, big brother.”

He tasted blood and unwanted grass, a sickening blend of sounds that mixed with the dragon’s voice, all of which he refused to hear. But they came to him in spite of the gaining thunder, clear and through, stronger than any wisp of rain.

“Bailong-”

Ao Lie: “Spoiled, useless, petty- and it was true. So let Ao Lie prove he’s not so useless.”

“Shut up!”

Again choked on rouge, Wukong picked himself up, gasping as he crawled with all the speed his weary limbs would allow, backside on fire and innards tearing. He shot out a hand, fingers spread and bloodied palm open, a final call for Ao Lie to turn back.

“Bailong, don’t be an idiot! You’re no good dead!”

The dragon stopped, as if ready to consider the offer, and when Wukong’s heart hitched, his blind panic about to stop, Ao Lie smiled, blue eyes bright.

Ao Lie: “It’s what you would have done.”

“Bailong-”

“Don’t miss me, big brother. It’s alright. I was born in the sea and it’s there I’ll return. I won’t be lost, and-”

“Fuck you and fuck your speech!”

The prince laughed, not unlike the sound he’d made back in Moonfield Village, and said, “To be your little brother, it was my honor.”

He kowtowed, fierce and determined, leaving no room for argument as that head stretched into a dragon’s snout, robes fanning into white scales, and hair bursting into a mane of sea blue. The dragon launched himself into the sky, a body of white against blue, and nothing left but the crack of debris and a final cry of, “Bailong, you asshole!”

Wukong collapsed, pinned flat by the gusts of wind left in Ao Lie’s wake, his screams of- Bailong- lost to the dragon’s roar and the wet sound of his own coughs. Again trapped in a gathering pool of fresh blood, the monkey shuddered and inched on, until he reached where Ao Lie’s shadow had last fallen, the dragon’s name still struggling to leave his cracked lips.

Above, lightning split the sky, followed by a sharp boom of thunder, so great the very earth shook beneath. But what caught the monkey’s eye was not the grey of clouds nor the white of thunder-- a blue petal lay within reach, one amongst a hundred more, a single cornflower amidst broken twigs and damp grass. Wukong pinched its bottom with two fingers and dragged it to his chest, the flower looking not a day past first bloom and conjured from a single hair. On it were the words YU LONG, white over blue, lightly stained with a spot of green dragon’s blood.

Ao Lie had returned his gift, a sure sign that the dragon had no intention of coming back, and it was then that the monkey wept, clutching the flower until its petals burst out.

Chapter Text

Wujing trudged through light drops of rain, stopping to scratch itching gills every now and then, a telltale sign of devilish chi in the wet air. Spade in hand, he shuddered and walked on, a trail of fresh blood as his guide. It lead him to the remains of a clearing, and it was there he stumbled upon the very demon he’d been after- Sun Wukong. On his side, the monkey was curled in, open wounds lit by a clap of bright white in the stormy sky, a flower crushed in his broken grip.

“Eldest brother,” the fish said.

Wukong gave him no sign that he had heard, and only when Wujing took one step closer did he see the tears streaking down, that monkey’s beaten face scrunched into a helpless sob. But he had heard, this Wujing knew, perhaps from miles away, but he’d said nothing and done nothing.

“Eldest brother!” he said again.

The first disciple picked himself up then, as if trying to crawl away from Friar Sand and towards what, the fish did not know.

“Boss, I’m over here,” Wujing said bluntly.

When Wukong continued to ignore his presence, the fish marched forward and snatched him up by the scruff of his bloodied robes. The monkey tried to wriggle out, twisting left and right in half-hearted efforts to leave, and when the fish refused to yield, he bit down on one blue thumb.

“Ow!” the third disciple cried, dropping Wukong with a hard thump. “Boss, why’d you do that!?”

Wukong: “Don’t call me that, asshole!”

Then head lowered, he wept on, bruised knuckles sinking into earth, blood and salt mixing under rain.

“I’m not your boss!” he sobbed, “I’m not fit to be anyone’s elder brother! I don’t deserve it.”

One hand slid forward, followed by a knee as that waist rose, but the monkey fell again, slamming into dirt with a muffled cry. He shifted that head, chin scraping grass, and said, “Bailong’s gone! I couldn’t save him. I can’t save those people, I can’t save Bailong- I’m just a good for nothing demon...”

Wujing: “I’m an asshole.”

“I know you’re an asshole! Now leave me!”

“But you’re not.” Wujing knelt and rubbed away at the monkey’s neverending tears, perhaps too roughly, some long buried instinct telling him to be tender, that somehow now only he could stand between the first disciple and his fall.

“That’s why you’re our boss,” Wujing said, “you’re willing to save others, whatever the cost to you. Me and second bro- Bajie never wanted to. Damn baldy’s still waiting for you to save him and the storm hasn’t started yet.”

Wujing stood, half dragging Wukong up with him, the monkey’s sobs contained, and looked to that swirl of rain clouds in the sky.

“So tell me where that fucking brat is,” the fish growled, “because I’m going to kill him."

Above rising river, wind and thunder danced in a war of shock and rain. Churning clouds twisted across splintering pieces of the ravaged sky. Ao Lie shifted into human shape, coming to rest on the bank of Heaven Reaching. Hair drenched, he lifted his palms, robes flapping under the tumble of unholy winds. In the eye of the storm, he stood dry, ankle deep in floodwater and eyes narrowed ahead.

He would not let the tribes along that bank die so soon, would not let those children return orphans, and would not let the roofs of Huang Tian fall. It’s what big brother would have done, he reassured himself, it’s what Master would have wanted . And still, he gulped. The storm roared atop him, a snarling beast of puff and smoke, its jaws ready to snap and swallow with every strike of thunder come.

“I am Prince Ao Lie,” he said, though he knew the storm could not hear, “son of King Ao Run, Yulong, third heir of the western sea.”

There would be no second chance, this he knew- he’d left Wukong behind long ago, and there was nothing left to help him now. And alone, he could now admit, he was terrified to the roots of his shaking heart. But the prince refused to budge, instead composing a eulogy in his mind, a calmness dawning in the act, not unlike the effect of Xuanzang’s boring sutras.

Ao Lie: “A palace of children, ten, Ao Lie, the youngest son. King Ao Run never did his way look. And two brothers, always fighting for the throne. Ao Lie’s mother, a concubine strange. The western palace, a dragon’s nest, with everything a heir could e’er want, but empty in the end.”

Four and a half transformations . Ao Lie kicked himself off from where he stood, a spiral of water at airbound heels, and launched that body straight for the center of the roaring storm. Hair sprung free as those pins flew out, all bets off and nothing stayed.

“Puti was his Master first, a father Ao Lie never had!”

Pulled by wind, he twisted in the air, again assaulted with quick rain, waist stretching as he leaped into the dragon’s sleek form. Chest heaving, he released every last piece of chi, streams pale gold and blue breaking through each hardened scale and nerve.

“Sanzang second, the Great Tang priest! His eldest brother wrought havoc in heaven five hundred years ago, the splendid Great Sage, Sun Wukong! Second, Marshal Tianpeng, Zhu Wuneng, and Third, Juanlian, Sha Wujing!”

Chi conflated, the dragon’s mane bristled, limbs stretched back as he dove past a block of clouds, scales melting into mist and tail blazed to rain. His body turned, phasing into a copy of that very same storm, alight with sharp pain when he pulled at the river’s flood. The water coursing through his veins, Ao Lie felt it flow from mouth to heart, bursting through what was once skin and blood.  

Now I say, tell King Yan, Ao Lie’s final words: Father, I loved you and love you still. I only wished you would have loved Ao Lie as well. Brothers and sisters, forgive my faults and treat your subjects fair.

He remembered his mother’s song, a low tune she’d hummed by his cradle in the western sea. He used to torment the shrimps guarding their home with castaway shells and cruel false orders. He’d turned brother against sister, and sister against brother. He’d cowered from his father and ignored his sister’s mother. He’d schemed against them, and them against him, the western throne so far and yet in reach, nothing more than a chair between death’s face. And his uncle had never said a word, too lost in mourning for a cousin Ao Lie would never know.*

If he could start anew, Ao Lie would have learned his mother’s song, would have sung for his sisters, and thanked the servants for their thousand years of care and hurts. He would tug at his uncle’s sleeve and tell him it was time to let go, hold his father’s hand and look him in the eye. He’d end every quarrel and drink in the old sea, for it was all that they were and all that they knew. And his father’s pearl, Ao Lie would leave untouched, for it had never been about that damned pearl-- he knew this now.

Master, go west and remember Bailong Ma. Big brother, you loved me, and loved me well. And that is all Ao Lie could want, as these three hundred years could tell.

But he did not regret the pearl’s death, because he no longer envied its great pull. His family had chosen it over him, cast him aside to avenge its ruin, and it was that wound which pushed him on. It had pushed him into Puti’s arms and the first warm days of Three Star Cave. It had pushed him to Sun Wukong and his Sanzang, into a demon’s heart and mortal’s same. And for once, Xiao Bailong had belonged where Ao Lie never did- this was home and family rolled in one, what he realized he’d never had.

What he could do in return, the prince did not quite know, but this he could do, and he meant to follow through. He had never mastered the fifth transformation, an element that changed nature to nature and life to life, a trade of sentience for the unyielding force of earth’s very own. He could not have been one with the sky back then, nor the sea nor ground, for he was unwilling, too vain and too scared to try. But now sapphire eyes shut, swirls of rain in their place, and Ao Lie could feel his own self fade.

The flood had stopped, this he sensed, its water drained within his being, and in the next clap of thunder, he knew this transformation too would fall apart. But he’d have no form left by then, his very soul given to the river and wind, no chi left to undo his spell.

On the journey west, Ao Lie was ne’er empty, he forced his thoughts to say, I was home. But from the sea I came, and to the sea, I return.

He thought of bad congee and cramped rooms, the Master’s sutras and big brother’s twigs, the pilgrims’ bickering and shared laughs. Every step had lead him here, and fixed on the image of their lot’s final smile, he braved himself to end all there.

From the sea I came, and to the sea, I return.

In a flash of white, he entered the remains of Lingang’s storm, a burst of chi breaking apart each locked soul and sin, the sky now free from the demon’s roaring beast. He was ready then, to give in and become part of the air forevermore-

“YOU LITTLE BRAT!”

Ao Lie: What the-

Wujing flew towards the eye of the storm, braced against every pound of wind and rain, and grabbed what remained of a dragon’s horn. With a booming snarl, the third disciple yanked, and yanked, and- crack!- lightning fell, a surge of chi, dragon’s and demon’s alike, shot through the friar’s form. Shaking from head to toe, Wujing held the body in his charred arms and fell, dropping into the river below as those raindrops did from above.

And in the water, his shape gave way to a fish’s form, what remained of Ao Lie tucked between his teeth.

Jiu Gong blew the ash from her nails, sharp tips swiped clean as sparks of ember dipped to smoke. She could sense those “boys” nearby, the servants no doubt cowering between fallen trees and burning bark. The vulture surveyed her handiwork, pleased at the sight of forest fire and smoke in the night. The sudden downpour left her sopping wet, but the gale and rain did nothing but add fuel to fire and ghosts to dust.   

Most devilish , she thought, most devilish. Now that’s more like it.

“Come out, brats!” she said, “you wanted a fight, you’re on!”

Wet silk clinging to skin, she waltzed on, laughing loud as thunder boomed. Lightning flashed white behind, yellowed by fire and muted with smoke. And when Jiu Gong turned, she saw the outline of a child’s shape, one of those servants ready to pounce from behind.

“Too easy!”

With a snap of an arm, she threw a ball of chi their way, head bobbing as she cackled along. Left with no choice, Mingyue and Qingfeng split east-west, their path razed by golden flame. Face dusted with soot, Qingfeng returned a blow Jiu Gong’s way, and yelped when she bounced his chi straight back.

“What’s your problem!?” Mingyue cried.

“What’s my problem?” Jiu Gong shot back, “what’s my problem. Tathagata’s been asking me that for years! I don’t need you or your geezer to ask me too!”

What’s my problem? Snarling, she launched a wave of chi Mingyue’s way, the servant raising his arms in time to block, but was hurled away regardless of that counter spell. Her problem was that she was not her mother, that she was not Xiao San, that she was not a demon, and was lumped with each of them all the same. To follow what the heart wants had been her motto for so long, and even that was a paradox in itself, for now she knew- what did that heart want? Chaos, peace, or some reason to leave?

“You will return with us, Nine-Headed Vulture,” Qingfeng said, hopping along a series of branches barely broken, “and you will assist our Master. I have said before-”

He threw both hands over the highest branch, swung his torso to the next tree, and pounced onto the vulture’s back, a shield of chi covering his body from head to toe.

Qingfeng: “I do not fail!”

Burnt by that sudden aurora, Jiu Gong cried out and shook the servant off with an angry thrust. Fangs bared, she growled his way and again tossed a shock of chi at his small frame. A tree collapsed, sliced in half when Qingfeng slammed against that trunk, a slip of blood popping through his lips. Mingyue leapt in front, a wall of chi raised to shield them both from that final blow. It rebounded and burst away in another bloom of wildfire gold.

“Qingfeng, Qingfeng, you idiot!” Mingyue said, head turned to shout at his fallen partner, hands still holding that wall in front. “Wake the fuck up!”

Groaning, the other servant pulled himself up, shook awake, and jumped to Mingyue’s side. Jiu Gong pushed both palms forward, fire shooting from each digit as the servants fought back in vain.

“Give it up,” she hissed, “that geezer could care less if you got fucked!”

Mingyue: “He’ll have our heads!”

Jiu Gong: “Not if I have them first!”

Qingfeng: “The likes of you would never understand! Our Master has faith in us-”

Mingyue: “-doesn’t bullshit us!”

“So take back what you said!” the two cried in unison, those flames finally caught up with the remains of their wall, a hot flash of chi bursting between.

Jiu Gong stumbled back, a gust of wind threatening to displace her feet, forced her ground, and looked ahead with grit teeth. Qingfeng and Mingyue lay on the soot-burned ground, side by side, and equally dazed, as if not quite recovered from the vulture’s force. Rain pelted them from above, roaming over flame like hand on clay, the world again flattened by tears the earth shed.

Frame burdened by the weight of water on cloth, Jiu Gong approached, feet sloshing through dirt-turned-mud as she cooled those palms and glowered on. She lifted both boys with each hand, their wet collars loose in her lax grip. And not looking either in the eye, she said, “So where’s your geezer now? He’s not coming to save you, you know.”

“He will not have to,” Qingfeng said, struggling to escape on sore limbs.

Mingyue: “We’re doing just fine!”

“You got your asses kicked, little shits,” Jiu Gong said, but the words fell empty, for she knew then that neither servant cared whether Zhenyuan showed or not.

They had his confidence, and that was enough- their Master’s validation was all it took to keep those boys on their feet. And it had been the same for that young dragon; all they’d needed was an inkling of respect, some sign that they were worth each task. And to that old patriarch, his servants had never been worth less than anything in his keep. They belonged to him and he to them. And Jiu Gong, who was no one and no one’s, now knew what she’d sorely missed.

She dropped the servants in the mud, smirking coldly when they groaned, and said, “Beating you up was a fun waste of time and all, but I’ve gotta go.”

With a spin of soaked robes, she took to the sky, fabric cast for feather, and nine heads unveiled, the vulture’s form again free as her golden wings took flight. To be no one and no one’s had been her choice, but that pit in her heart told her there was more to want and be. She had been wrong from the start, because hollow desires and wanton things would never have filled that hole. And now she had nothing save a sharp guilt, that bitter empty heart moved for the first time in perhaps a hundred so years.

Friar Sand paddled upstream, bobbing against currents in the downpour’s spite, and emerged from the river as a log slammed down. It blocked the path ahead and stopped him from being carried farther off by the raging stream. Large eyes tilted left and right before they landed on the end of that fallen log. Outlined in rain, Wukong stood, slumped over his bloodied staff, one foot upon the log and an arm wrapped around his waist..

Wujing swam closer, and with a muffled “boss!”, opened his mouth, revealing a white shape squeezed between his jaws. Heart pounding, Wukong limped forward, stumbling down as he let Wujing ease the figure into his arms. The monkey sat then, shivering along the bank, and held Ao Lie to his chin. The dragon was as limp as a doll, his eyes shut and pale hair matted, a good half of his white robes dyed emerald.

“He’s an idiot,” Wujing said, “almost lost him to the storm.”

In place of the prince’s right arm was a dark hole surrounded with green, the blood outpouring and mixing with rain. The sleeve was in tatters and the limb it once held, torn away at the shoulder, both lost to Heaven Reaching’s tempest. But as he watched the dull rise and fall of Ao Lie’s chest, Wukong sagged farther, all but burying his face in the dragon’s wet hair, cheekbones brushed by those wretched horns.

“Bailong,” the monkey gasped, tears again free, “amitabha, you little shit.”

“Boss, he’ll live,” the third disciple said, a touch of relief in his giant eyes.

“He’ll live,” Wukong repeated, too overwhelmed to say much else.

Ao Lie would live. His fool of a younger brother would live on. Ahead, there were more days where that prince could whine, when he could run at his seniors’ heels and tout that youthful voice, when he could boast and laugh and pout all the same. And now, however damaged, the dragon would live, for a world without Bailong’s scent- the salt of the sea and a tad too fine- was not one the first disciple could quite fathom. Ao Lie was one part of this world, and now he was here to stay.

“Old Sha, he’ll live,” the monkey said, lifting his head at last to meet the fish’s gaze.

Wujing could see the tears still flowing, even amidst the rainfall and Wukong’s broken smile, but it was the sight of Ao Lie, alive and well, and the words old Sha that told him there was still trust between brothers sworn. They stood together, and nothing more need be said.

Wukong lay Ao Lie along the bank and placed the dragon’s remaining arm at his side. The monkey blew a breath of chi into his hands and pressed both palms against Ao Lie’s chest, a course of new life flowing through the dragon’s veins. A slight glow replaced the pallor in Ao Lie’s face before it gave way to familiar pale skin, the prince’s chi restored and his very blood stabled. Wukong tore off a piece of the fourth disciple’s skirt and bundled it over his right shoulder, calm as it soaked green.

The bleeding staunched, Wukong gathered Ao Lie into his own trembling arms and rose on weary feet. As if carrying one of Mount Huaguo’s baby macaques, he approached Wujing and said, when their heads almost bumped, “Take care of him. And take me downstream, to Vulture’s Peak.”

“Boss, that storm took a lot out of us- I’m stuck in this form now. I can’t leave shore with you.”

“I know.”

And worried, the fish said, “You gave that brat a lot of chi. Can you really go on like this?”

The monkey swayed, prodded by the weight of his wounds and Ao Lie’s form, his stumble stopped by the rush of Wujing’s head. Leaning against the fish, Wukong spat out a splotch of blood and said, “You told me yourself- Master’s waiting.”

Thunder clapped, so close the fish started, and Wukong flashed a pained smile under exhausted eyes.

Wukong: “And if I don’t go, who the fuck will?”

Wujing frowned, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but as he prepared to receive Ao Lie from Wukong’s hands, a third voice cut abruptly in.

“What did I miss!?”

Wujing snapped his eyes around, only to see a man’s head bobbing up from the river, his pepper hair slick with rain and sharp eyes glistening in the night.

Wujing: “Who the hell are you?”

“What kind of daft question is that- I’m Zhenyuanzi!” the man said, and it was then that Wujing’s jaw fell slack.

Any hair on the patriarch’s chin was gone, as if fried clean off, and only a gaunt jaw remained, the immortal himself nigh unrecognizable without his black beard. Wukong stumbled again, he too taken aback by the sight of Zhenyuan’s beardless form. Shaking their reactions off, the patriarch swam forward, robes pooling around, and paused when he reached the river bank. Wukong slid Ao Lie atop Wujing’s back, tied him down with another rip of cloth, and turned to help the old immortal out.

“I almost had your Master free,” Zhenyuanzi said as he climbed ashore, “but those devils really are a damned lot.”

Wukong: “Then Master-”

“Alive,” the patriarch said, grim, “but for how long, I don’t know.”

And having gotten a better look at Wukong’s sorry state, Zhenyuanzi’s eyes widened before he said, “Younger brother- what happened to you-”

Then his eyes fell on Ao Lie, the dragon still and bound to Wujing’s back. “What happened to him? And where’s that other demon of yours?”

“Dumb brat was stopping a flood,” Wujing replied, “the other demon’s gone.”

Again, second brother had almost slipped from his mouth, and it left an empty taste in the third disciple’s throat, more so than the blow he took from that storm and Ao Lie’s keep. But the patriarch had brought up a good point, so he looked to Wukong and asked, “And what did happen to you, boss?”

“Who cares,” the monkey said, “King of Spiritual Touch won’t be a problem anymore. Horned brothers too. Tiger’s half dead and only old Huang’s left, huh?”

“You forgot the scorpion,” Zhenyuanzi added bitterly, “the Yellow Wind Demon put up a shield to keep Master Sanzang in. I was this close to getting him out before she came in and… did this.”

He gestured at the missing beard. “Nine thousand years on my chin, gone.”

Wujing: “That’s so disturbing.”

“I know! But enough about that! Huang Feng’s shield keeps celestials out. It’s going to take twice the amount of holy chi to break.”

“So we’ll need two celestials to break that spell outside,” Wukong mused, “and one demon to go in. Nothing hard about that.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Easier said than done. My chi’s near spent, and neither of you are in any state to help.”

Wujing: “That’s true, boss.”

Wukong snorted, and ignoring Wujing’s grunts, hopped aboard the fish’s form, using each scale as a stepping stone. Cudgel tucked between leg and arm, he dropped down beside Ao Lie and tilted his head into one palm.

“You said so yourself- I’m the boss here,” the monkey said, “do as I say. Take me to Vulture’s Peak. Then leave with Bailong. Patriarch, follow us and try again- I’ll go in, see what I can do.”

Zhenyuanzi: “But there’s no guarantee we can-!”

Wukong: “Old Sun says we can. That’s enough, no?”

The first disciple turned away with a short cough, one hand coming up to wipe fresh blood from his parted lips. Zhenyuanzi trudged past mud, again wading into river to stretch a hand Wukong’s way.

“Younger brother, at least let me part some chi for you first,” the patriarch said, with no small hint of concern, “you’re injured quite badly.”

Wukong: “Nah, save it for Huang Feng’s spell. I’ll be fine.”

“But boss, you really don’t look well.”

The monkey eased back into position and said, “Don’t waste anything on me. Let’s go.”

“There’s still need for another celestial,” Zhenyuanzi argued, “Great Sage-”

Wukong: “Taken care of.”

Zhenyuanzi: “What-”

“She’s right here,” a voice said from above, so familiar that Wujing nearly jumped.

A vulture landed on that log, nine golden heads snapping beaks in unison, before its feathers swirled into silk robes and that creature again stood in a woman’s shape. Jiu Gong sneezed, soaked to the bone with a never-ending coat of rain, rubbed her lashes the best she could, and said, “Monkey, you look like shit. I mean it, wow, look at you.”

“Thanks,” was the dry reply.

“Her!?” Zhenyuanzi’s cheeks flushed red, the anger sharp from temple down. “She’s a demon! She should be helping with anything but this! And where are my servants-”

Jiu Gong threw her head back and laughed, cackles howling as she ripped away the wettest layer of those pale robes. “Zhenyuan, you’re a beardless dick now! Can’t wait for your brats to see! Oh, oh, this is amazing! And for your information, I’ve still got the celestial’s touch.”

Then, looking at that monkey’s dark gaze, she said, “I’m not doing this for Tathagata or your Master, just so you know. Those days are done. I’m doing this because I feel like it.”

Because I want to, was the unspoken phrase. Nothing compelled her, for there was no reward for such a task and no order from above. This was her choice alone, and to choose what was right did not come easy for the golden vulture. But in that instant, it did, and in that instant, Jiu Gong knew- as that ape did too- she was a demon no longer.

“Great,” Wukong said with a flip of the eyes, “let’s go already.”

Xuanzang sat cross-legged, still as stone, his back to the rain and eyes downcast. The scorpion had tried to goad his attention again and again, but the Tang priest kept silent, mind lost to its mulling thoughts. The Golden Cicada, he told himself, Buddha’s own . It explained the allure of his flesh, at the very least, but at no other in point in the monk’s life did a suspicion occur.

He’d been born a mortal like any other, lived as such, and prepared himself to die as such. From his own mouth, he’d even said- Jiang Liu was no special child, an orphan among many, and a fool of a man. Even in that split instant after Duan’s death, in a bright garden where all seemed clear, he had remained Xuanzang and no more.

“Not so tough now, huh?” the pipa demon said, “thought you had the upper hand, didn’t you, stupid priest?”

Lightning clapped and thunder boomed, enough to jostle that scorpion in her tracks. But Xuanzang stayed still, chest in flutters, and left knuckles white as his blood dripped down. Then he must have betrayed Tathagata to come down, and here he sat, his back turned on Lord Buddha once more. And out there, his disciples were sure to die.

“Please,” he said coldly, “shut up.”

But now it did not matter who or what he was, for he was helpless all the same. And as he again braced himself against the pain of this mortal shell, he wondered if the Golden Cicada would have looked down on his weakness as well. He glanced at the burn on his shoulder, the wound a sign that even a dignified death had been denied. You became a mortal for this? He thought to himself, an empty bitterness building within. You can forget the journey west, damned cicada. We have nothing left.

And still, the monk waited, as if some sign would blow in and give him way. Thunder rang, and chilled, he shuddered.

Blood on his palm. Groggy, Wukong removed the hand from his mouth and let loose a silent cough. Ao Lie was unmoving beside him, both atop Wujing’s bobbing back as the third disciple swam, head kept over water.

“Boss, how are you holding up?” the fish asked.

Wukong lay, back flat against Wujing’s roving spine, and blinked away falling rain. Muscles screamed and everything ached, each chip of bone doubled with every move of fin.

Wujing: “Boss?”

“I’m fine,” the monkey mumbled, breaths leaving in sharp stings.

As the first disciple thumbed away a split of blood from the corner of his mouth, Wujing swam on, keenly aware of the warm wetness spreading across his back. He knew it was not rain or urine, for even in water, the scent of Wukong’s blood rang strong.

“You’ve been coughing up blood this whole trip,” Jiu Gong chirped, feet skidding above water as she and Zhenyuanzi followed along, “but sure, keep telling yourself that, little ape.”

Zhenyuanzi: “I’d hate to agree with her, but the vulture has a point. What say we stop and-”

“No!” Wukong cried, a snarl underway as he shot up with a fierce show of teeth. “We stop for nothing!”

The patriarch made to retaliate, but his reply was cut short when a pair of voices entered the fray, Qingfeng and Mingyue dropping into the river with a cry of, “Master, we found you!”

The servants caught each other by the elbows, feet steadying feet and sleeve locked in sleeve, a sheet of chi carrying them above water and into Zhenyuanzi’s path. Wujing glanced at the new arrivals, Qingfeng and Mingyue thoroughly bruised and dirtied, their once fine clothes burnt black and stained with bits of mud and blood. Jiu Gong whistled when she saw them, a smirk in her eyes as she looked upon the damage she’d wrought.

“We’re so sorry, Master!” Mingyue said, latching onto the patriarch’s sleeve with a tearful sob.

“We could not best the vulture,” Qingfeng said, taking Zhenyuanzi’s other arm and attempting to kowtow on the spot.

Mingyue: “We tried our best! She’s just too evil!”

And together, they sobbed, “And you lost your beard! We can’t accept this!”

The boys buried their heads into Zhenyuanzi’s robes, mournful tears seeping in as they apologized again and again in an effort to win the Master’s sympathy.

“We’re in public,” the patriarch said, prying Qingfeng off first, then Mingyue, before he raised his brow at seeing their snot, “and the vulture’s right here.”

Mingyue: “Huh?”

Qingfeng: “Come again?”

“That’s right,” Jiu Gong said as she peeped over the patriarch’s shoulder, “in the flesh! Don’t know what these brats are on about.”

“Seriously!?” Mingyue cried, “you fucked us over so bad!”

Qingfeng: “Master, she resisted us again and again! I do not know why she stands here now!”

Jiu Gong: “Never seen you two in my life.”

With a cry of rage, Mingyue lunged at the vulture, only stopped when Zhenyuanzi pulled him back by the collar. Qinfeng approached Jiu Gong, features tight with rage, but the patriarch stayed him as well.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Zhenyuanzi said, “now I’m afraid we’ve reached our destination.”

In front, the vulture stopped, staring past mist and downpour to see where they stood, at the edge of Heaven Reaching, when the river opened into rocky sea and ashen shores. Again, Jiu Gong took in the sight of death, a shore of skulls and broken boats, white as bone and damp with rain, Vulture’s Peak a cliff away. Her gaze trailed to its very top, the peak hidden with layers of rain, so high it looked as if lightning would strike it down. Wujing entered sea and the storm cracked on.

The fish bobbed along until he reached the bank, eyes wary when Wukong slipped off, one foot first, then staff next. The monkey dragged himself a few steps more, weight on cudgel, and narrowed his gaze at a mound of nearby dirt. Jiu Gong and Zhenyuanzi landed behind, the two servants quick at their heels, all near blind with violent rain.

“Great Sage!” that mound said.

Startled, the servants jumped back, their Master chuckling as the pile of dirt morphed into the shape of Tudigong, twenty or so shivering children in his keep, their skin kept dry by the magic of earth.

“I knew you’d come,” the earth god said, “the Yellow Wind Demon still has Tang monk trapped!”

Formalities forgotten, the monkey approached and said, “In which ridge?”

Tudigong: “The highest point. There’s a spell that- my, Zhenyuan, is that you?”

The patriarch sighed, glared at the snickering vulture, and said, “Yes, it’s me. A result of that demon’s spell. I’m-”

Jiu Gong: “We’re.”

Zhenyuanzi: “We’re on our way to counter it again.”

“Quit chatting,” Wukong said, “let’s move.” And after a beat of thought, added, “Tudi, if our lot doesn’t come back, just take the kids and go, got it?”

“Understood, Great Sage. But I do hope Tang monk knows your plan.”

Wukong met the earth god’s eyes, that gaze wise and somehow sad, as if Tudigong knew what he planned from his very gait. The monkey grinned, crooked and dry. “You’re smart for a celestial.”

“Boss,” Wujing said, “what are you-”

Wukong shushed him and said, “Keep Bailong safe. Grandpa Sun doesn’t want to worry about either of you.”

That said, the monkey snapped his fingers, and from thin air, the remains of that cornflower burst from rain, dry and tucked behind Ao Lie’s still ear. Then the first disciple stumbled on, dead set on a beeline for Vulture’s Peak, a trail of red snaking at his heels with each limped step. Jiu Gong prepared to follow, turned to the patriarch, and said, “You coming, geezer?”

Eyes grim, Zhenyuanzi patted each of his servants’ heads and gave the order, “Qingfeng, Mingyue, stay with Tudigong. Protect the children and wait for me to return.”

Mingyue: “But they’re just mortals.”

And as if stricken, the patriarch replied, “Exactly. What use are we if we can’t help a few mortals out?”

Qingfeng: “Master, we understand.”

Mingyue: “Well, I don’t.”

Jiu Gong: “Hurry up before we all die of old age!”

Zhenyuanzi turned and snapped, “Alright, alright! I’m coming, you rotten vulture!”

In a swirl of air, the patriarch disappeared and popped in beside Jiu Gong, nothing left by an outline of rain in his wake. They flanked the monkey left and right, his sight locked on the looming shape of Vulture’s Peak, its ridges scarred with sea and wind, devil’s shadow glaring down. Wukong dug the cudgel further in, that bank of bone turning to powder under its weight, let his knee rest, and said, low, “I’ll get Master out. You two get up there, do what you have to.”

“Easy,” the vulture said, “just don’t slow us down, monkey.”

“Show the Great Sage some respect, would you?” Zhenyuanzi snapped.

Jiu Gong and the patriarch exchanged a glare, brows doused with rain, before they took to the air without one breath spared. Wukong pushed the staff forward, ribs already aching at the thought of the climb ahead, Vulture Peak’s height daring him on. A breath held in, he summoned the somersault cloud and made to jump, battered body again smashing ground when the mist separated at the touch of his feet. With a curse, he hoisted himself, blood stark red against that ashen shore, bone grinding bone and rib pressing lung as he struggled to stand.

“Boss, are you alright!?” he heard Wujing cry.

From above, Zhenyuanzi called down, “Younger brother, do you need my help?”

And Jiu Gong said, with some cruel mirth, “Trying to cloud ride in that condition, what did you think was going to happen, huh, Great Sage?”

Hugging his ribs, the monkey stood, as-you-would cudgel grasped in one tight hand, blood dribbling from chin and chest. Nostrils flared, he steadied himself against the rain and wind, water pink as it touched his skin.

Wukong: “Just keep going, asshole! I’ll kill you if you mess this up!”

Jiu Gong: “Fine, fine!”

And as Jiu Gong’s laugh echoed, Wujing watched the monkey shrink behind mist, his form hidden under rain and dwarfed more by the storm above.

“I think it’s been long enough,” the demon said, again shifting to her scorpion’s form, “King of Spiritual Touch is probably dead. I’ll tell Lord Huang and we’ll just eat you ourselves.”

Xuanzang offered her nothing save a cold gaze, no glower or word to be spared. Irritated, the scorpion scurried towards his knee and raised a pincer, as if ready to split that leg apart. But the monk did not so much as flinch, and with a frustrated “tch,” the demon turned and left.

“You’re really moody, you know that?” she said as her tail disappeared behind the farthest cavern wall.

The Tang priest tugged at the sling about his right arm, teeth in chatters as the wind howled on, bits of rain swinging in. Thunder slammed on, its sound as strong as a dragon’s roar, bouncing in echoes in and out the cavern walls. And in that dampness, the monk could only bow his head, a burning sorrow bent within as it told him he had failed and failed again. His sole comfort lay in the children freed, for at least someone had survived this hell.

A flood of white again lit his prison from its mouth, and when the ensuing thunder clapped, Xuanzang saw the shape of two legs behind. Huang Feng, he thought, bemused, so you’re finally here to finish the job.

And about to ask how exactly the demon intended to eat him whole, Xuanzang lifted his head and turned his gaze, only to feel all his breath jerk away, as if a stone had slid down his throat and lodged itself in. He could no longer hear the wind or storm, his flesh turned to ice and his mind struck blank. The lightning passed and he was again sitting in a cavern of faded dark.

And all he heard was a single word: “Baldy.”

Xuanzang wondered if it was a trick of his eyes, if perhaps the blood loss had killed him already or if those demons had returned to play one final trick. But that voice was unmistakable, deep and strained, its one word carrying all the weight of what lay between he and him. 

Chest pounding breath and staff in hand, Sun Wukong stood at the mouth of that cave, at the very space Zhenyuan had tumbled down.

The monkey stepped forward, once, then twice, features clear in his approach: the tousled hair, blue patched cloak, heavy brow, all wet with fallen rain. He was here and he was in the flesh, and transfixed, Xuanzang could only watch that demon limp, his face shades of grey and blue, those clothes soaked in blood and mud. But Xuanzang was afraid to speak, as if a single word uttered would break this sight, and in the next blink, there would be no one here.

And still, the image stayed- inches from where Xuanzang sat, Wukong dropped to his knees with a harsh gasp, and from the gap in his crossed robes, the monk saw splashes of red spread across that scarred chest. Again, the stone in his throat sunk, a bitter reality telling him his former disciple had indeed come. And caught somewhere between relief and horror, Xuanzang raised a trembling hand.

But Wukong spoke before that touch could reach. “Master, who did this to you?”

The monkey lifted his eyes, equal bits boiled with sorrow and rage, as if piercing through to the monk’s very soul. He placed a hand against Xuanzang’s head, calloused fingers lightly tracing each smarting bruise, one after another, maiming the monk from eye to chin. He stopped at the neck and its shallow cut, eyes wide at the fingerprints left, heart burned by the harm which stood so clear.

“How could you be so stupid?” Wukong whispered, the monk’s bloodscent ever strong, his cassock in tatters and shoulder dressed.

He sniffed, eyes hooded, and said, bitter, “The tiger and that goldfish.” I should have made them suffer more . “Fuck.” And again: “Fuck!”

The monkey shuddered, his head lowered, as if the sight of Xuanzang’s wounds hurt to look upon, and it was then that the Tang priest saw a tear roll down. Perhaps it was trickling rain, but Xuanzang felt his chest clench regardless, sure that Wukong had no doubt blamed himself. Even so, the monkey blinked that water away and said, “I’ll get you out of here, Master. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

He stretched a hand out, wrist trembling and fingers bruised, palm about to brush the bandage across Xuanzang’s chest. But the monk retreated, breath harsh before that touch could reach.

“I’m not your Master,” Xuanzang said, his own voice a ghost of what it once was, “damned monkey, you…”

He steeled his gaze against the pain in those eyes, lost to whistling wind and the steady dripping of Wukong’s blood. “You had no right to come. You stupid demon, what’s wrong with you?”

And he felt himself snap in one breath, every rage and regret pushed into one, no filter on his tongue and less on his mind, each word more strained than the last spat out, “Don’t you remember what I said, bad monkey? Even if you died ten times over, I’d let you rot in hell- that’s what you are to me, understand? Then why, why, why- Why didn’t you listen to me, for once in your damned life!?”*

And words rolling, Xuanzang shoved Wukong back with a bellowed, “I’m not worth dying over!”

I’m not worth it, you damned ape! You fool of a monkey, you stupid disciple.

Wukong reached for his knee and again, the monk backed away with a rasp of, “Don’t touch me.”

“Baldy,” the monkey said through grit teeth, “I came because-”

Xuanzang: “It was a rhetorical question!”

Thunder drummed as another roll of lightning flashed, white and wind all about, and in an instant, the cavern fell dark. Shattered ribs protesting, the monkey moved his shoulder, left, wriggled and shed his cloak, right arm following and body slipping out. He rubbed away another streak of blood escaping tight lips and in one swift motion, wrapped that cloak around Xuanzang.

“I came because I don’t care,” Wukong said, tone as rough as his gaze was soft. “Count yourself unlucky, baldy- you’re stuck with Old Sun.”

And Xuanzang’s throat ran dry, his tongue suddenly shriveled and the beat of his heart dimmed to a thud, his next breath caught in the air. And as the thoughts unscrambled in the priest’s light head, Wukong looked over a shoulder and saw the end of a yellow cape. Huang Feng stared, eyes wide, and in a split second, hardened with rage. He thrust forward as Wukong pulled Xuanzang close, that cloak lifted over both their heads, a shield of fabric against devil’s wind.

And beyond that cavern, a golden buddha soared from the sea, alight under sea and rain, and high as Vulture’s Peak. A second followed, and a third, waists deep in the rising sea.

Wujing cried out when a violent wave splashed him up, the sea in swirls as Jiu Gong and the patriarch worked their magic from above. Helpless, the fish bounced and bounced, no anchor for his fins to work, so instead, he swam with each current, until he was near level with the tip of Vulture’s Peak, a hurricane of water charging its way. He twisted his face as best he could and blew a mist of ice over Ao Lie’s form, freezing the fourth disciple from the chin down.

That done, Wujing felt the water under again move, himself dropped until he hit a metallic clang. Then he rose, belly flat against the hand of a buddha’s palm, and looked up to see the face of Tathagata’s miniature clone. It brought about a sense of deja vu, Jiu Gong’s grandest trick now at their aid and not against.

“Boss was right,” he said, “you did something to the buddha’s nose!”*

“It’s called modelling!” Jiu Gong retorted, herself standing at the shoulder of the centermost buddha, Zhenyuanzi hanging right behind.

Palms folded one over the other and fingers spread, the patriarch released a blow of golden chi, that streak smashing into Jiu Gong’s own and the combined wave ramming straight at the cavern’s mouth. The three buddhas closed in, each with two fingers raised, and delivered a shock of blue the peak’s way. Huang Feng’s shield bubbled red and cracked pink, about to shatter under this assault.

And from within, a tornado of needles shot out, mixed with glowing chi. Jiu Gong yelped, a slice of wind nicking her cheek, and ahead she saw Huang Feng himself step out, eyes blazing and hair let loose. Both hands raised, he bared his devil’s teeth, snarled, and cast a wave of chi their way. Zhenyuanzi was quick to block, and in their back-and-forth, Jiu Gong pushed her buddhas on, the peak itself cracking from top down.

Near blinded by the clash of chi, Wujing saw a bolt of lightning fall, striking square in the center of Vulture’s Peak. And when the cliff itself began to crumble, he felt the buddha lunge forward and swoop in. Debris scattered and rock broke rock, Vulture’s Peak sliced in half and its ridges burnt. But in that chaos, Wujing saw the tip of a bald scalp, Xuanzang and Wukong bundled in the monkey’s cloak, both huddling at the end of that sliding ridge.

Wujing: “Master!”

Wukong looked up, and in that instant, Huang Feng dropped his shield and tackled Xuanzang down, all but ripping him from that cloak.

“Master Sanzang!” Zhenyuanzi cried, Jiu Gong willing their buddha forward before the whole peak fell.

The vulture slid down the buddha’s chest, flying against storm as she reached for Xuanzang’s sleeve. But the Yellow Wind Demon pulled him back and in a roar, willed the cliff to smash down. The cavern caved in, blocking Jiu Gong at her fingertips, and when Wukong screamed, “Wait!” the vulture dug her nails into his collar instead. Zhenyuanzi descended then, and yanked his sleeve, and together, he and the vulture hauled the monkey up, cloak and all as the peak collapsed, down and down.

Wukong fought against their iron grips as the sea sloshed downward and the storm rained on. The buddha stepped back, and still, Wukong struggled, a helpless hand reaching for where the peak once lay. Zhenyuanzi kept him at bay, hands tight against the monkey’s shoulder, and said, pained, “Younger brother, stop! Stop, it’s done.”

Then the monkey broke down, head lowered between Jiu Gong and Zhenyuan, voice tightened to a near wheeze when he said-

“Wukong.”

The rain pelted on, and in the split of that second, the transformation broke, nothing left of the monkey’s shape save a single hair. Zhenyuanzi caught it before the wind carried it off, and gaping in disbelief, looked to who was in his grip. Wukong was gone and in his place, Xuanzang sat, huddled in the monkey’s cloak, and mouthing his lost disciple’s name.

Chapter Text

Under rubble, the scorpion struggled on her back, limbs flailing as she fought to rise below what remained of Vulture’s Peak. Beyond those fallen slabs of rock, the gale and rain continued to strike and strike, streaks of light and thunder in the night. From the cracks in cliff and gaps between rocks, water shot in with slicing wind. Heaving, Huang Feng knocked a fallen boulder in four and climbed to his feet, the Tang priest shielded in firm arms. The demon forced his way through the dark, himself and the scorpion canopied by crossed slices of rock, sharp ridges holding each piece up like temple pillars. And this ceiling reached tall, as if touching the stormy sky. He set the monk down, no protest on Xuanzang’s lips, and scooped the pipa demon up.

Huang Feng threw off his tattered cape, a casualty of that great attack, and looked down at his shoulder torn, dark red seeping through fabric like a blossom of ink. Then he turned his gaze on the helpless priest, Xuanzang shivering with eyes downcast.

“They’ll come back for him soon, my lord!” the scorpion garbled, “please, please, let’s eat him now! ”

The Yellow Wind Demon grasped Xuanzang by the collar of his robes, took a hard whiff of his scent, and as if possessed, clamped his jaws over the monk’s right shoulder, that sling falling away. Sharp teeth sunk into skin, Huang Feng’s eyes alight with rage, and- rip!- he chewed off a chunk of flesh, choked on blood, and failed to swallow. Coughing as that blood splattered, he looked to Xuanzang with a bitter snarl.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice!?” the demon rasped, “the scent of your filthy blood!”

“Taste good, asshole?”

The monk’s face grinned, and embroiled in fury new, Huang Feng dropped the figure in his grip, shot a hand into that new wound, stuck his nails deep in blood, and thrust. Wukong hit the nearest slanted ridge, and weightless, fell in a heap of red and rain, nothing remaining of Xuanzang’s shape.

Bajie felt his back slam against a tree with a hard- crack!- and after he slid down, shook off the pain, and rolled aside when the trunk fell. Cursing, he gathered his rake and stood, feet fighting to stay stuck on ground as the rain poured on. The wind fought alongside it, like oil and flame, as the tempest roared ahead. When the rain started, he did not know, and when the storm started, he still did not know.

Time might as well have stopped since Wujing’s departure, and even in this harsh storm, the blood on Bajie’s rake had yet to wash away. And standing in the midst of that storm, all Bajie could do was remember the day after they received the Bodhisattva’s horse. It had been storming that day as well, though not nearly half as strong, and though he schemed, he was but one disciple among three. Now four.

And now, what was he? He’d asked himself this twice before, once when Tianpeng was cast from heaven, and again when Lady Gao twisted a knife in his heart and left him for dead. He had been a demon then, and a demon then. But Bajie- and did he still have a right to that name- was nothing, if not self aware.

He knew himself selfish, lustful, and a monger of the very worst, for he loved sin and sin loved him. And never once had he felt the inkling to change, because never once had he admitted he could.

“Great,” he mumbled, “just great.”

For Tianpeng, his vices had always come first, duty second, and when punishment fell, he failed to contest. The pig bore his trials without complaint, endured mud and beatings and all that followed, some stifled hope that heaven would see and take him back. But a moment’s respite had changed it all- red lips smiled behind a fan, and as the demon hid under wood, caked in dirt and eating flesh, he knew then that he’d fallen in love with Lady Gao.

Gao was not Chang’er, and it was just as well, because all things considered, Tianpeng had not found the young miss Gao beautiful in the least. But something had drawn him in regardless, and he’d thought he could live on as a mortal man. He took on a humble form, built his wealth as any honest merchant would, and worked Gao’s farm like a boar tamed. Perhaps it was the way she laughed or the way she moved- there was a strange prettiness there that he failed to resist, as he’d failed to resist so many before. She played his wife and he adored her every part. And so in love, he’d overlooked all flaw, forgotten that mortals and demons were not so unlike.

Her lover stabbed him thrice, and thrice again, and he’d played dead, for in that instant, Zhu Ganglie, for he had been Ganglie only then, knew he might as well have been. It was greater than any hell, and he’d wondered when heaven would simply stop- these punishments, he could take no more. He pierced her and hers on each boar’s tusk, drank their blood, and swallowed their flesh, not a drop of regret in his bitter wake.*

But now, as he stood and stared at the puddle below, Bajie was numb to the rain smacking his spine and the mirror before. He saw no demon boar in front, no pretty gent, and no great marshal- he saw himself and his pursed frown, eyes dark and as human as a mortal’s came. He put a thumb to that mask of a face, slick with water and powder white.

Bajie had worn this face so long he’d forgotten why, and now his chest squeezed in as he remembered why: opera, especially, Lady Gao had loved.

Lightning struck overhead, and when thunder followed, Bajie knew his dream had stopped. He stood awake, and rake grasped tight, he knew it was time to let go and go. He could not right his past, could not erase his flaws, and could not be shameless enough to apologize for all he did wrong. But he could walk towards that storm, and so he did.

Xuanzang had closed himself off to everything, this Wujing could tell. He’d beckoned for the Master again and again, but save a glance Ao Lie’s way, the monk had not spared a single word. Two of Jiu Gong’s summons had returned to the sea, and only the centermost buddha remained, itself shrinking as her chi tired. Xuanzang sat in the fold of two fingers, Wukong’s cloak wrapped tight around, and the patriarch trying in vain to soothe that monk.

Wujing lay in the buddha’s other hand, and save the word, “Master,” could not find much else to say.

“Quit sulking, Tang-Tang,” the vulture said, her tone much softer than it’d been before, “that monkey’s bad at dying.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Don’t blame yourself, Master Sanzang. The Great Sage must have a plan.”

Between them, the monk sat stoic, not a twitch on his blank mouth. Above, the rain roared and washed them over, as did the wind and storm, but Tang Sanzang remained numb to all, even thunder unable to move his ear.

“And even if he did die,” Jiu Gong said, “you’ve still got three-”

Wujing: “Two.”

Jiu Gong: “Two disciples for company, yeah?”

“How can you say something so insensitive to Master Sanzang?!” the patriarch snapped.

And butting heads, the vulture replied, “Like you’re so good at it, you beardless dick!”

“Master, you better say something,” Wujing added, “eldest brother wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Xuanzang slumped farther into that cloak, nose dipping in as he took in the coarse fabric’s smell, a mix of old hay and baked earth, for even under all that blood, he could make out the dim traces of Wukong’s scent. He remembered the texture of wild grass and warm fur, a desert’s grin, and fingers laced inside his hand, fallen cabbage all around. And wherever he’d turned, that monkey’s head had been there. Thunder echoed once more, and mind made up, Xuanzang cast the cloak aside, the sea storming on and the bump of Vulture’s Peak lengths away.

Xuanzang: “I’m going back for him.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Pardon-”

The monk slid down, and- splash!- he plunged into the rolling sea, oblivious to his companions’ screams. Head bobbing up, he gasped for air, and again sunk down, legs kicking, and right arm screaming as that sling came unwound. But Xuanzang churned on, the current his one ally as wind pushed him towards the remnants of Huang Feng’s lair. And there, his Wukong lay- all else, Xuanzang purged from his mind, this his only goal.

Wukong released a mouthful of iron, lungs again rattled when Huang Feng rammed him against another crooked ridge, rock breaking in half behind. He slid down, and on his back, the monkey coughed, and coughed, ribs shaken and bones on fire, nose gushing blood in fast warm trickles. Huang Feng approached, growling for breath and covered in sweat. And perched in shadow, the scorpion giggled, watching that beating with no small ounce of sadistic glee.

“This isn’t like you,” Huang Feng hissed, “you’ve always been so loud, cocky-”

He stuck a foot against the puncture made by Jing’s golden sword, sharp sole pressing in as blood oozed out.

Huang Feng: “Strong!”

Wukong groaned, and it did nothing save fuel the demon on. Huang Feng kicked that wound, satisfied when he forced a hurt cry.  

“I used to think I should have been more like you,” Huang Feng said, “if I was half as cruel, if I was half as wicked.”

Again, his foot came down, smashing into the monkey’s ripped shoulder and willing the blood to spread apart.

“Then my wife would still be here,” the demon finished, drive suddenly lost.

He removed his foot and merely stood, still and pale, and dripping red. Numb with pain, Wukong hacked from where he lay, choking on blood old and new. And when that fit dimmed, he looked to Huang Feng, chuckled, and croaked, “You give yourself too much credit.”

“Enlighten me,” Huang Feng snapped.

“Don’t think I forgot… All those years ago, you came to me because your mate sent you. Like you could ever do anything on your own, ha- ha ha!”

Teeth clicked, Huang Feng lashed out, a pop of chi flashed Wukong’s way, stabbing his abdomen through. And still laughing, the monkey skidded a good ten feet, head crashing through rock, body jolted after. He collapsed in a slide of debris and leaking rain, but he kept those chuckles bouncing through each aching “ha” and “ha.”

“Told me yourself,” the monkey said through sputters of blood, “she wanted peace for your little lives, down in some human village. She loved their lot, huh?”

“She was too naive,” the demon spat, “they’d never have accepted us.”

“That’s not what you told me.” Wukong latched onto the bits of rock behind, grunted, and pulled one knee up. He wiped the blood from his lips and said, with a dry scoff, “She worked her magic on their herbs. You were their doc, but she was your boss. I thought you both had shit for brains back then, but maybe I was wrong.”

The monkey paused to catch his breath, the sound of storm and wind pounding above.

Wukong: “She knew it’d kill her. She died for her peace and you spent the rest of your life fucking that up. That what she’d want? Face it, Huang Feng, you were always a fucker like me.”

He limped one step forward, heaved again, and growled, “You were a coward of a marten, then and now, and I don’t know whatever the fuck your mate saw in you.”*

Injury forgotten, Huang Feng lunged, a gust of sharpened air bursting from an open sleeve. It tore into the monkey like arrows unto fire, speed unrelenting as blood scattered, fabric and flesh tearing into a dance of rouge petals. Rain slid into blood and blood into rain, and above all else, wind into wind.

“Shut up!” Huang Feng roared, “shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!”

And then the air stilled, nothing left save the demon’s panicked breaths, his palms numb and nerves near spent. Wukong dropped to one leg, broken knee buckled, but that head remained up, pained eyes stayed on Huang Feng’s own. His blood fell in angry plops, left pectoral in shreds and bicep cut down to bone, Puti’s bandage long since soaked crimson against his dented chest.

Huang Feng: “You of all people have no right to speak.”

His anger calmed by the sight of Wukong’s newfound wounds, the demon looked down and said, “When I first saw the Monkey King, you were on your high throne. Your apes served you hand and foot. You had Mount Huaguo under your thumb, because you were a demon king. Of course you’d never want to change. We were just little martens to you.”

Then he clenched a fist, blinking back what could have been a tear, when he said, “You refused to help us make peace back then. Even when you had everything to gain and nothing to lose. And now, you’re still denying me my goal."

And each word a breath of agony anew, Wukong replied, “Either smoke's in your eyes or you’ve got shit for brains.”

But tongue bitter, he pushed those lines out: “You wrecked your stupid peak. You sent all your underlings out to die, and now it’s just you and me. Wanna know what happened to Mount Huaguo?”

He threw his head back and reigned in a snarled shout. “It burnt to fucking ash! I’m king of nothing! And you just threw everyone you had away! You don’t give a shit about your devils, you don’t give a shit about anything!”

“You-”

But then it was Wukong upon him, the monkey having leapt from his spot of ground and knocked the demon down, hands closing tight around Huang Feng’s throat, blood spilling unto the devil’s chest.

“Lord Huang!” the scorpion cried, still perched in the shadow of a wet slab.

Wukong: “You shut the fuck up! And you have the gall to bring my Master into your idiot plans! I won’t forgive you, you shitpiece fucker!”

Nerves pushed, he meant to slaughter then and there, blood for blood and death for death, eyes seeing red and all else gone. And- crunch!- Huang Feng’s knee shot up, slamming hard against the monkey’s cracked ribs. Breath again knocked out, Wukong toppled on his side, crashing into earth and spilling a wave of new blood. He rolled onto his back, gasped out red, and stared into Huang Feng’s seething face.

“So if you don’t kill me,” the monkey rasped, “I’ll kill you.”

Slumping, Huang Feng put a hand to his own throat, rubbed the bruised skin, and coughed out spittle. Then, bitter, he stood straight and said, voice scratched raw, “Nothing would please me more.”

Stoic, he waved one shaky palm, another blow of fiery wind cutting across the monkey’s form, again leaving a trail of harsh blood when that gust hurled Wukong back. Sure the first disciple showed no sign of standing back up, Huang Feng thrust both hands together and blew a stream of wind into the air above.

As the gales bounced needles of chi between, he looked to the scorpion and ordered, “Take care of him.”

“Sure thing!”

The pipa demon left from her perch and dropped into human shape, a humorless grin climbing across her lips. She dug her fingers into what remained of the monkey’s robes and dragged him up, pushing forward until he was forced to stand. Wukong felt her arms snake around his neck, those eyes looking at him as if he was meat uncut. Her tongue poked and prodded at his dribbling blood, the scorpion no doubt enjoying each second of his shuddering pain.

And Huang Feng stared on, no hint of emotion on that tight face.

“You hurt me in Moonfield,” the scorpion purred, “you hurt me badly, damned ape.”

The tip of her index finger met the back of his neck, a nail turned prick, so quick he barely registered the sting of a scorpion’s wrath. And then he gasped, damaged body soaked in sweat, a fire burning below flesh, as if every hair and nerve had been bled and bled again. Pain tripled, he cried out, next cry choked by gulps of uncontrollable blood, throat and chest churning of their own accord.

But her embrace tight, the scorpion refused to let him fall. And as he gagged, she laughed light, “So it’s my turn to hurt you.”

Tender, she pulled his robes down, first over his shoulder right, then left, teeth clicking with soft “tsks tsks” when she saw each wound.

“Did mean old Lingang do this to you? Or was it the vanguard? And oohh, who did this?”

Fingers danced across his back, half caressing each pipa puncture, twin wounds weeping behind each shoulder. Then nails pressed in, gleeful as they squeezed fresh red. Mute with pain, Wukong watched, breath lost, when the scorpion’s hands fell on his chest in front.

“And all these scars,” she said in a singsong taunt, “how’d you get so many?”

She clawed away the ruined gauze and eager, grinned. And on cue, a whip mark broke into a stitch of red, again fresh burned and slashed into skin. One by one, each scar followed, tissue tearing and blood rolling out, scratches of crimson breaking across limb and chest, rivulets of red dripping from gouge to gouge.

“Did he beat you, the Tang priest?” she mocked, his head cupped and tilted towards her breast.

The monkey groaned, lost in another sheen of sweat, shackled in place by the onslaught of hurt, old scars turned cuts burnt from stomach to back. And the scorpion’s hands, drenched in his blood, crawled on, digits brushing each new burst of red.

“Poor monkey, did you think he’d mourn you?”

He felt the stab of Li Jing’s spear, the jolt of an arrow’s blade, Zhenyuan’s dragon crop, and every other nick and scratch that’d ever come his way. The fire of Lao Tzu’s cauldron buried him in, as did the weight of Buddha’s hand, and then every lash he’d taken under Five Finger Mountain returned a ghost. Tathagata’s whip again carved into skin, leftover scars torn twice, then thrice. Vision near black, the monkey sunk to his knees, the storm’s raging song drowned by the rip-tear sound of himself wrenched asunder, and asunder again.

Still, the pipa demon held him up, breath on his ear as she said, “The centipede told us everything. You killed his woman, such a naughty monkey.”

Wukong gasped once more, throat too clenched to scream, that body alight with five hundred years of injury done, century-old scars now wounds fresh, not an inch of respite across his bloodied flesh. But the scorpion’s poison did not relent, and even the bone under skin began its break, every bruise and crack returned.*

“Is his forgiveness worth so much?” she cooed, “do you really think he’ll care when you die?”

Then the last scar tore, from a calf marked by the Celestial Howling Dog, a chunk of flesh gone and red outpouring. The scorpion let go and Wukong fell, crumpled in a stream of blood unending, wound fighting wound and gasps in gasps. As rain hit his head, he shifted that gaze, Huang Feng’s foot at the tip of his nose. They again locked eyes, both glares heated and silent as cloud in storm.

“I kill you or you kill me,” the Yellow Wind Demon said, “your words.”

“And,” the monkey wheezed, blood in breath, “the point stands. You’re not touching my Master.”

He shook his head then, ever slightly to the right, and felt the weight of a needle slide out. The shrunken cudgel rolled, and when Huang Feng caught sight of its golden glint, the monkey mouthed “change!” and watched it grow. The staff shot forward, length stretched up and down, and pierced the demon’s chest with crunch over crack. Hot blood splashed out, that cudgel pushing on, the width of a fist as it drove through robe and flesh.

The scorpion screamed, and Huang Feng merely cried aloud, rage and pain mixed in one. He swiped an arm, eyes narrowed as a burst of wind pushed Wukong up and on. The monkey tumbled into the air above, straight into its sharp gales. Needles of wind sliced past him every which way, that body blown from gust to gust, his blood now rain and rain his blood. And as the monkey’s blood drizzled down, Huang Feng coughed red bile, shaky hands pressed about that staff as he plucked and plucked.

But the cudgel remained stuck, as unyielding as it’d been in the eastern sea, and blood seething, the demon looked up. He flipped one palm and squeezed a fist, nails so tight the skin broke and bled. Those winds above poured into one, and Wukong felt them strike his chest, a final blow to that bleeding heart.

Then that gale cut across his eyes, a flash of prick and blood, sharp and unforgiving as it rendered all dark. The wind released its grip, and in the moment he fell, blind and spent with pain, the monkey could have sworn he heard his name cried.*

The vanguard crawled along the bank of Heaven Reaching, fur battered with rain and wet with blood, his wounds not yet healed and enough to slow. The King of Spiritual Touch had met his death, and though his storm reigned on, the tiger knew the worst of the flood had been stemmed. He growled and carried on, fueled by what was left to be done.

When the river almost met sea, he looked across to that bony shore, and saw Lord Huang’s prisoners, ten and twenty, huddled in a bubble of chi. At their head, an old man stood, height short, beard white with a gentleman’s cap, a pair of battered boys flanked at his sides. The vanguard sensed a celestial’s chi, not weak nor strong, but an enemy all the same, and so, he could only assume another of the monk’s allies had come.

Growling, he arched his back and plunged down, into the water with not so much as a hiss of pain. The current carried him fast, and claws latching earth, he dragged himself out, eyes fuming and teeth bared. One boy saw him and cried out. His companion followed, and when the old gent finally turned, the tiger swiped.

Strands of white fell sliced, the earth god having popped away in time, Zhenyuanzi’s servants clutching each sleeve. They stepped back, eyes darting for a way out, and held the children close, each child clinging behind.

“Give them back,” the vanguard hissed.

From afar, Wujing shifted on the buddha’s palm, saw the tiger leap, and cried, “Tudi, look out!”

The vanguard’s jaws clamped over a nine-toothed rake. And when the tiger looked up, Bajie yanked and knocked him left. The demon crashed into crushed bone below, and weapon held up, the pig said, “Now, now, we didn’t go through all that trouble so you could eat these brats.”

“Marshal Tianpeng!” the earth god said, relieved, “where did you come from?”

Qinfeng: “I thought you had died.”

Mingyue: “Damn, you’re late!”

Wujing: “Yeah! Where’d you come from, asshole!?”

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Bajie snapped.

He spun around and when the tiger charged, again twisted the rake to block his claws. Then the vanguard pushed his limbs up, chomped upon that handle, and shoved the rake out. Palms loosened, Bajie stumbled once, and in the next crack of thunder, the tiger struck, sharp claws slashing cheek.

Blood shot out, and when the children screamed anew, Bajie slapped a hand to his right cheek, looked behind and said, “It’s not that bad, not that bad!”

The pig frowned, pulled his palm down and watched the blood drip on, the cut running deep and no doubt thick. Gaze dry, he gasped out, “You ruined my face. Have you any idea how much time and effort beauty takes?”

Mingyue: “Your face was ruined when you were born!”

Bajie: “Hey, hey you, shut up!”

He tossed the rake aside and toes raised, dropped to all fours, back arching as the tiger’s arched along. Two tusks sprung out as robes twisted into armor and skin spouted fur. Bajie grew, twice, then thrice his size, until all traces of man were gone, and in their place, a wild boar’s shape. Then, with a snarl, he charged, tusks trapping claws and snout pounding teeth as the vanguard locked blows. They fought, pound for pound, and snout for jaw, tusk on tooth, and leg on claw, deaf to thunder and blind to white flash.

While those demons raged on, Jiu Gong continued to glide above sea, the patriarch’s back to hers, both searching for any hint of the Tang priest. The vulture was sure no mortal could have gone so far, an injured one no less, but again, Xuanzang proved to be a wildcard of a man. Zhenyuanzi claimed his chi was near, so the current had not yet washed him to sea and he was still breathing at the very least.

“I don’t get it,” the vulture sighed, “I don’t get it. We risk our asses to get him out and he jumps back in. It’s like he wants to be eaten, that kinky freak.”

“What’s there to understand?” Zhenyuanzi snapped, “you’re the one always going on about ‘what the heart wants.’”

“Yeah, normally the heart wants what it can get! That ape’s dead anyway. Tang-Tang’s just going to break his heart watching. Fucking masochist.”

Zhenyuanzi brushed the rain from his brow and said, “And there, you said it yourself! It’s been so long since my mortal days, but I think, I think I remember-”

He made to stroke a nonexistent beard and paused. “Mortal hearts rarely care what they can and can’t receive. And Master Sanzang cares deeply for his disciple. That’s all the reason he needs. It’s stupid, but stupidly noble in a way.”

The vulture snorted, kicked the sea below, and said, “That’s how you put it- ‘cares deeply’- you know, I’m starting to believe you grew from a tree, geezer.”

“Just be quiet and search!”

Jiu Gong flashed a smirk and again turned her eyes down, but not long after she and the patriarch slid on, a hand closed around her shoulder. She glanced at Zhenyuanzi, his face blanching, and though she knew why, animal instinct telling of a hunch correct, asked away, “What?”

“Someone’s chi is fading, and-”

“It’s not Tang-Tang, I know.”

The patriarch looked at the fallen peak, far ahead, and muttered, “Great Sage…” And then, Jiu Gong knew exactly where Xuanzang had gone; he’d reached his goal, and now he was to pay the price.

Wujing saw the pair grow still, but could not hear their words under rain and wind, so instead, turned his attention fully to the boar and tiger. Bajie was pushed into mud and bone, the tiger’s claws sunk deep in his broad back. And with a squeal, the pig wriggled and came out on top, the vanguard now wrestled below his limbs. Wujing lost count of however many rounds their match had gone on, but he knew the tiger was weary and far from strong.

And Bajie had never been stronger, muscles straining as blood rushed, and nerves flying as eyes gleamed . Then, he charged, hind legs forward, and- shuck!- stabbed the tiger through both tusks. Bajie roared, victory cried, and flung the vanguard back into sea, water pooled pink and lifeless head sunk. The boar lifted his chin, and swept himself back into human shape, robes soaked wet and tattered with wounds left scratched. He thumbed blood off his sliced cheek, the cut stark red against that white masked face.

Winded, he grabbed the rake and leaned against for a second’s rest.

“Marshal Tianpeng-” the earth god began.

“No need to thank me,” the pig said, “I’m a humble man.”

“I was actually going to suggest you help your brothers. But I do thank you!”

“Yeah, asshole!” Wujing called, “come help us, you lazy shit!”

Typical! Mingyue made to add on, but Bajie silenced him with a finger pointed out, and when Qingfeng’s lips moved, the pig said, “You too, shut up.”

That said, he clutched the nine-toothed rake and kicked himself up, bouncing over air until at last, he landed beside Wujing, feet stopping upon the buddha’s open palm. Pig and fish stared off, neither willing to sigh or speak, some grudge between still unsure. It had once been me-and-me for both, disguised as me-and-you against all, and now they stood under rain, you-and-me for good. Bajie looked to where Ao Lie lay, frozen atop Wujing’s back, and knew then, that there was no leaving now.

Wujing: “Asshole.”

Bajie fixed him with a glare.

“And you, bastard,” he told the fish, “call me Second Brother .”

Against all odds, the Tang priest had found a rock to latch upon before that current swept him too far and away to sea. And while the buddhas faded behind, he pressed himself against that boulder, sea and storm crashing over. One arm dangled uselessly and he knew his wounds had again opened, but there, shivering in his ruined cassock, Xuanzang simply did not care. Then a sudden bout of wind nearly slapped him off, but the monk clung on, and in his hold, looked up, whatever remained of Vulture’s Peak ahead and tall.

And in a crack of rock and ridge, he saw a figure fire out, coated red and heading straight for sea, like a limp doll lost. But somehow, the monk had known, even before he caught a glimpse of that dark hair, before he saw that battered face, he knew who’d fallen before his eyes. And it was as if lightning itself had struck the priest’s chest.

“Wukong!” Xuanzang cried, his voice a screech and lost to storm.

The monkey hit the water, and nothing lost, the monk plunged after, his blood now ice and heart all but stopped. Desperate, Xuanzang swam, every ache and bruise ignored, right arm screaming for his stop. But its pleads fell flat, and in a rough pull, the monk yanked Wukong into his left arm, hand over waist and thigh held high. Then he turned and dipped up, for shore was close, and there was nothing in his mind but no and no , storm within and storm above.

Xuanzang hit the rock of a bank, scalp first, torso next, and screamed for air. He coughed water and gasped in pain, wriggling himself out of sea. And inch by inch, he pulled Wukong with, arm aching and legs stabbed, until they both fell against wet earth. His lungs on fire, the monk turned, eyes meeting the roof above, a high slab of rock hidden from sky. Rain and wind struck on, but in this space, he knew they’d be at least dry.

Crawling, he dragged Wukong farther in, a queue of red left behind, and as soon as that blood had stained, the rain again washed it out. Xuanzang sat, still coughing, and hauled the monkey into his hold, Wukong’s head upon his lap. Trembling, he looked down, the first disciple’s eyes closed tight, dark lids stained red, as if they’d been gouged shut. Blood dripped on from his nose and mouth, and that shredded chest lay bare, streaked with harsh wounds anew and remnants of a ribcage shattered.

“Wukong,” the priest heard himself say, a whisper cracked, “Wukong.”

He’d wanted to shout, but his throat was strung so tight that a whisper was all he could force and hear. The monkey’s arms lay limp, sleeved in lacerations and bruises new, torso a mess of punctures and criss-cross slashes, the blood still pouring and pooling on. A palm behind that head, fingers over cheekbone, Xuanzang pushed his disciple up, until Wukong rested against his left shoulder, back sheltered by an aching arm, waist above the Tang priest’s knee. And through it all, the monk made out each slice from shoulder down, foggy with blood and washed with sea.

“Wukong.”

Xuanzang could see bits of bone poke through skin, not an inch of flesh free from wound or blood. One leg propped bent, and the other calf bled, a sure sign his disciple’s sufferings did not end there. And against his own robes, Xuanzang felt the warmth of blood seep. Wukong’s wounds wept on, and there was nothing Xuanzang could do to make them pause.

“Wukong,” he again said, voice rising and falling with each sound, “Wukong, get up, bad monkey, listen to me.”

He held the monkey close, as if somehow he could shield Wukong from further harm. He knew it futile, but did not care, and so Xuanzang let his mind flood blank, Wukong’s name on his lips and the words “bad monkey” whispered and said.

Xuanzang: “You damned ape, you damned brainless ape. I’ll punish you for this, I really will, I’m not bluffing.”

Only insults and threats left his tongue, but Xuanzang knew them as empty as his jolted mind, chest far too tight and eyes blurred. He no longer knew the difference between what he meant and what he said, but it was just as well, because for once, his tongue tied, and he was as lost as rain in storm.

And in the dark, Wukong heard a voice say- “bad monkey”- again and again, insults hurled at his head, each louder than the last. That voice was rough and strained, and forward all the same, strong as it was meek-- Xuanzang’s. He felt breath on his face and a trickle of salt. Beyond that voice, he could still hear the drum of thunder and pelt of rain, no hint of a stopping storm. But here, he lay dry, though his bones shook, skin wet with blood and sea.

“You nasty, stupid monkey. Why did you come?”

Xuanzang, for it could only be Xuanzang, continued to curse his name, but a gentle caress fell upon the monkey’s face. He’d long since lost himself to this wretched pain, and as he felt himself cradled against the priest’s warm shape, found it strange to be treated so soft. He’d forgotten how long he’d known nothing but pain and pain, and here in this warmth, he could not help but feel a dim respite.

He knew it was no spell of Huang Feng’s, because the Master’s scent- raw grain and clay, and a touch of spring in fall- he’d know every and anywhere, even under a mask of storm and blood. And that demon had been left behind, pinned by the as-you-would cudgel, that staff faithful to the end. Wukong imagined that he’d nestled farther into the priest’s embrace, for he lacked the strength to move, and he wondered if this was some sightless dream.

But then he felt a smooth head touch his brow, skin upon skin, and breath above breath. No rain struck in, and still, he felt a warm slip of water fall against his face. Another small prick followed, and as it slid toward lip, he tasted salt, but it was not the eternal spice of sea. It was distinctly mortal, temporal and quick, having left as soon it had struck.

Forehead pressed against the monkey’s own, Xuanzang lifted his face as soon as he felt Wukong stir. And tears still sliding, he watched the first disciple struggle for breath, barely a draw from his still chest.

Then again, the monk asked, “Why did you come? Bad monkey-”

“I loved you since I first saw you.”

The words had come out in a tempered gasp of breath, lower than a whisper, and all but silenced by thunder and rain. But Xuanzang had heard, and then, nothing had been louder, for his heart beat once, then clenched as if it had stopped.

And in what could only be a squeak, the priest said, “What?”

And again: “What did you say?”

Still settled in Xuanzang’s grip, the monkey breathed, slight and pained as he made to speak.

Wukong: “Those were your last words to her .”

Xuanzang opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he’d wanted to say had died in his throat and left him with nothing but rain and salt upon tongue. Then, trembling, Wukong lifted an arm, the limb shaking and threatening to fall. But it did not, and fingers outstretched, he placed their tips against the monk’s face. He traced the bridge of Xuanzang’s nose, followed the curve of his jaw, felt for brow and eye, and thumbed away the tears from cheek to mouth.

“I wish I could see your stupid face, baldy,” the monkey said, a wheeze of a whisper.

And ashen lips parted, he went on in a tearles sob, those eyes sealed shut and their salt within. “Master, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I won’t have the chance to say this again- I’m- I’m so sorry-”

“Wukong-”

“I’m sorry I took her from you, you loved her so much, and I killed her, and it hurt you- I hurt you so much-”

Teeth grit, Xuanzang bowed his head, shaking left and right as the monkey rambled on- “Master, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”- his vision again blurred with water splashing out. He cut Wukong off with a sob, and said, “Shut up, monkey! Stop talking, stop wasting strength, stop it, please, please.”

“I wish I could bring her back,” Wukong said, bruised fingers trying in vain to brush away the monk’s newfound tears, “I wish I could undo everything I fucked up. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I told you to stop saying that, please, Wukong, please!”

“And I told you - it’s now or never!”

The first disciple gasped, again burnt with pain, and lowered that hand. Xuanzang caught that falling palm in time, and the monkey’s finger tightened, hand in hand as he clutched Xuanzang with all he had left.

“Master, whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let go of her.”

And the monk clung back, as if his touch alone would keep the breath in Wukong there.

“It’s what makes you different from those assholes in heaven,” the monkey whispered, “It’s why Buddha chose you, because you’re mortal, you’re so mortal it hurts, and you won’t forget it even when you get your nirvana. So go west and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Wukong-”

“And you don’t have to forgive me. You owe me nothing. Master, I just ask that you-”

He stopped to wrench in air, thunder in the distance, and as the blood gathered within his chest, the monkey spoke, timid and lost, for this was what he’d always wanted to say, had never found the courage to voice, and never knew he’d so needed. Until now and here, before the life fled him then.

Wukong: “Don’t hate me. Forget me if you want, but please don’t hate me.”

He felt more hot tears slap his face, fallen from the Tang priest, Xuanzang no longer blinking any drop back.

“And don’t cry for me. I’m just another demon.”

“No,” the monk said, again pressing his brow to Wukong’s head, voice all but cracked, “no, you’re no demon. You’re my good disciple, my best disciple, and you’re coming west with me.”

Xuanzang: “You did nothing wrong.”

Wukong: “Master, that’s a lie.”

“ I know! You did a thousand things wrong, but you’re dying and I don’t want you to feel bad! What, do I owe you an essay!?”

The monkey laughed then, weakly chuckling in Xuanzang’s grip, broken bones rattling as he allowed himself a spot of warmth. But the monk could not smile, for that second had passed as soon as it’d come, that one moment where all was as it was and nothing had changed. But no words could take them back, could undo all this, and leave all untouched.

“It’s still raining,” Wukong said, “put my body over yours- I can block it for-”

“I’m not using you as an umbrella.”

“Master-”

“Shut up already! You’re mangled enough.”

Then they went quiet, nothing between but the sound of breath and rain, thunder lost to sky and sea under storm. In that moment, they were lost in a world of he and him, with no one else and nothing else, and no other threat save the rhythm of a tender heartbeat. But that too was an illusion, and as blood fought to pump and lungs strained to move, the first disciple knew he only had now to say what was left between.

Wukong: “Master, old Huang won’t be moving around, but no reason why you should be stuck too.”

He squeezed Xuanzang’s hand, a tired smile breaking across his face, blood silently dripping from the corner of that mouth.

“What are you saying, bad monkey?” the monk asked, paled by another wash of dread.

“I still have a little chi left… I can heal your arm.”

Life chi . And in horror, the priest recoiled, snatching his hand from Wukong’s grip and watching the monkey’s limb fall limp. If his heart had stopped before, Xuanzang knew it had stopped now, blood ringing behind his ears and every breath shushed with the downpour from above. Lightning struck and thunder cracked, and the monk could do nothing but shake and shake his head.

“No, Wukong, no way, don’t even think about it. You- you can’t heal from this! Don’t you understand, you can’t heal, you won’t heal- you- !”

“It’s too late for me, Master. You know this.”

“I won’t allow it! Just lie here and I’ll get help. You’re not doing this.”

Then it was Wukong shaking his head, every movement slow and slurred, but Xuanzang found himself unable to look away. Because he knew what the monkey said to be true- he knew there was no other course, and that his Wukong was to shed more blood until he had none left. Wukong would have it no other way, and helpless, Xuanzang could not stop his hand from rising once more.

It touched the priest’s right shoulder, fingers stiff and poised as that palm bent.

“I know who your heart belongs to,” the monkey said, weak, his words no louder than a child’s breath, “but Master-”

Quite sure no new word would ever leave his lips, Wukong felt his chi course from blood to skin, and out of wind. And now he had no more to hide, body opened and heart cut through, flesh not stone, and blood not rock. So, the monkey smiled and said:

“I loved you too.”

Sun Wukong was hatched from stone, helpless against water, and destined to wash away. Then the Tang priest was born unto the current, the child with whom the river flows. The Great Sage Equaling Heaven was invulnerable, powerful, eternal, impenetrable, for he had no weakness at all. Until he did. Until Chen Xuanzang. He crashed into him like an ocean wave. And the demon born from stone had no choice but to sink to the very bottom.

And he would have it no other way.

Then Xuanzang felt a spiral of wind burst behind, Wukong’s chi having shot from hand to arm, and when he next looked, that right sleeve tore. It flew off in a cloud of ember, burnt by chi gold and a new life come, that arm lifted, thin and bruised. A snake of black made itself known, pressed against skin like ink on leaf, and with a flourish, it burnt off, fanning away into tendrils of red smoke. In its place, a stream of gold circled, rushing over flesh and slamming into bone.

The devil’s bond broke apart, bit by bit until not even ash was left, chased off and replaced by the spirit of the Great Sage. Overcome by a wash of amber, Xuanzang cried out, gasping and gasping as he felt bones mend, each chip and chunk coming together under air and flesh. The arm glowed, cased in gold from shoulder down, a surge of energy sparking through blood. And though that pain burned, Xuanzang felt nothing but the vigor of strength, his palm twice healed, and mortal chi merged.

The winds twisted and churned, closed in and spread, and shot out north, spinning until it broke the slab up high. The rock burnt away, and rain again fell through, but as it poured down, Xuanzang’s back stayed up, shoulders strong and breaths rushed by the glow of gold.

And when that light faded, the priest steadied his chest, gasped, and looked down. Wukong’s hand slipped from his shoulder, loose and leaden, still stained with blood and warmth gone. His head rested against the crook of Xuanzang’s neck, lolling down from weight lost, nothing more to hold that broken body up.

“Wukong,” the monk whispered, staring on in disbelief.

But his right arm moved, and both hands shaking, he held the monkey close, no trace of breath or flutter in that chest. The blood pooled on, but Wukong remained still, crumpled and cold, not a shiver or stir in his damaged shape.

“Wukong, you…”

And as he looked upon that motionless face, for once content, all blood drained and every bruise stark, Xuanzang felt his throat catch, a breath and sob caught in one. Some trace of spirit remained, but that body fell limp and he knew it was only a matter of time. He hugged Wukong to his chest, features scrunched as those cries choked on air and rain. And somehow, the monk kept his palms soft, careful not to jolt the monkey’s wounds, his cassock long since soaked with Wukong’s blood.

He drank in what remained of the disciple’s scent, tears unto rain, and breath into blood, legs rocking back and forth as he clung to that lost form. Because then, while Xuanzang sat under storm, battered with rain and weeping through air, he told himself the truth he’d always known.

He loved him.

He’d loved him since Wuzhuang, perhaps before. And only now, when Wukong’s blood was too far spilled, when that monkey lay limp in Xuanzang’s arms, wounded to the bone and eyes scratched blind, did the priest confess. He admitted to everything- he loved Sun Wukong.

He loved him.

He loved him with every sob lost, with every cry over rain, with every regret and loss twisting inside, with every wrong word and lost lie he’d ever told. All along, he’d loved Sun Wukong- before Huang Tian, before Moonfield, before Zhenyuan, past Liu’s Mansion, and in that desert.

He listened to the rush of creek, skin wet against breeze as that monkey lay upon the bank. Cicadas chirped and gentle branches swayed, as if they too had listened to Rama’s tale. Wukong looked at him, a twig in his mouth, eyes gleaming under moon. And then, Xuanzang had wondered what the disciple would do if he leaned in, if he too bit upon that twig, until it snapped and lips were forced to meet.

But he’d turned away and said, “Dry yourself up. Let’s go back, bad monkey.”

“Whatever, baldy.”

He loved him.

He’d been too weak to move in the night, worn out by the heat of desert day. But he’d stirred in Wukong’s lap and when the monkey looked, he’d kept those eyes shut. He’d stayed down as the first disciple spooned him congee and fed him water from a canteen shared. He did not think of anything else as he basked in Wukong’s care, tender and warm and ever strong. Bajie and Wujing gossiped on, but Xuanzang did not have the strength to mind.

He loved him.

Cheek sore from that sudden clout, Xuanzang took chase, sleeve hitting sleeve as he hopped after Wukong’s head. Slowed to his pace, the monkey wriggled and dodged, half smirking half grunting as Xuanzang reached for the circlet about his head.*

“Give it back!” Xuanzang said, “you know what, it really doesn’t suit you!”

“Go away, baldy! It’s mine now!”

Wukong escaped his grip, an inch away, and Xuanzang still latched on. And they laughed through that desert, the earth broad under sun as Wukong cracked a devilish grin .

He loved him.

In that tent, he lay curled, finger bandaged and head swathed in bloodied gauze. The rain pattered on about their camp, drips and drops upon pots and pans and logs left over. Wukong knelt at his foot, twig in his teeth as he rubbed the priest’s ankle, now swollen blue. Xuanzang did not look at him, and the monkey did not speak.

Bajie and Wujing sat in a thin tent across, huddled in as they whispered and pointed in hush-hush words. Xuanzang heard, but he did not care. Wukong had never been tender towards him, and he’d never thought himself a dead man walking. But he’d done what he did, and if not for that wretch of a demon, would have followed through.

He’d wanted to grab the monkey by his scratchy scarf, throttle him, and ask ‘why?’ but he knew it was much too late. Wukong would not let him die, that much was clear, and ever briefly, the monk wondered if that demon felt guilt, if there was room for him in some corner of that cold heart.

“Stinky monkey,” he said instead.

“Damn baldy.” And all was as it was. Except it was not, and never again would it be.

He loved him. He loved him.

And so, he cried on.

As he wept, a violent- crash!- sounded, and across, a slab of earth fell, ridge broken down and felled by a flash of pale yellow chi. The scorpion gaped, and behind, soaked in sweat, Huang Feng sat behind, one palm raised and the other over the cudgel in his chest, that demon still fastened to the ground and wall. Blood outpouring, he looked to Xuanzang, eyes hungry and snarl far gone.

The monk had seen this years before, Duan beside him, her last breath left. And a demon had pulled her from his last embrace. And helpless, Xuanzang had watched her die, Wukong’s bloodlust king and the priest nothing under. He’d promised to love her ten thousand years, but- “that’s too long. Just love me now”- but that had been now then , and this was now now.

And the one in his arms was no demon now- he’d said so himself, and it was so. Sun Wukong was his disciple, and the monk loved him, loved him fiercely, loved him now, and would love him on. He’d seen this before; he could step back and let Huang Feng take what was left of Wukong, could watch him gloat and simply sit. And himself, he’d stay and weep and meet his death. Perhaps that would have been so for Chen Xuanzang.

But it would not be so for Tang Sanzang. And Sanzang decided then and there, that he would not let this be. And then, Xuanzang rose, Wukong shrinking in his grip, his spirit weak but however there, until a creature only a quarter his size remained, too ill to keep human. Fur dark and tangled, the monkey lay, wounds still bleeding and body small, but Xuanzang’s arms remained tight around. Blood ran down, washing the priest’s robes red and staining one sleeve, scarlet unending and trickling through.

“This time,” he told Wukong, “Master will save you.”

And he meant to keep each word true. Then he turned to Huang Feng, brow set and glare flashed, sure to end all then and there. He took one step forward, then one again, thunder clapping and lightning in wind. The gales blew and the storm cried on, sea swirling out and the dust of chi in air. His tears slid out and that cassock slipped off, because from here, he would not retreat.

And from here the rain falls.

Chapter Text

Huang Feng bit back a gag of blood, teeth stabbing tongue as nostrils flared, pain pushed back and only fury there. The scorpion screeched beside him, babbling incoherent while the rest of Vulture’s Peak collapsed around. But the Yellow Wind Lord had one goal alone- the death of the Tang priest- and he would sooner die than let that man live on. The as-you-would cudgel shifted in flesh, tissue tearing as arms leaned forward, palms raised to a storming sky.

“I’ll kill you!” the demon cried.

And still, Xuanzang refused to break his gaze, eyes locked on Huang Feng’s own, both trapped in a whirlwind of rain and rock. For that demon, he felt a rage beyond hate, and a hate beyond rage, but when he looked at Huang Feng then, he confessed to it all and let them quell. The storm screamed on, but the monk’s vision was clear, for he knew himself now and he knew which path remained. Only forward could he go, and the Yellow Wind Demon was but another foe in his wake. Hatred scattered, and the rest, Xuanzang released.

Xuanzang: “Go ahead.”

In his arms, Wukong remained unmoving, the monkey’s blood sliding in tune with the rain above. But he lay in the shadow of the Tang priest, blood soaking sleeve and blocked from falling rain. That spirit grew dimmer by the moment, proof that the first disciple did not have long- this, Xuanzang knew. But he’d made a promise to the monkey, and this time, at least, he would see it through.

“But I can’t die tonight,” the monk said, voice drowned with wind and loud all the same, “I still have to protect my disciple.”

In an unspoken plea, he’d begged, Wukong, stay with Master a while longer. I won’t let you die here.

“With what!?” Huang Feng laughed, words jumbled into a harsh snarl, that demon half mad with pain and the priest’s scent so near. “That damned ape’s dead, elder! A mortal like you stands no chance!”

But those taunts fell flat, empty in Xuanzang’s ear, for there could only be one victor now, and as long as he breathed, he would not let it be Huang Feng. He’d promised to save Wukong, and so, he would. He would protect the monkey now, shield him from all ahead, and show him the Master would not fall. He thought of the weight in his grip, the image of Duan, the villages around Huang Tian, their waiting children, and the disciples he’d let follow for so long. This love scattered, and the rest, Xuanzang released.

“A mortal like me?” he said, “I’m actually quite skilled, but you wouldn’t know because I’m low-key.”

And even as the demon swung a hurricane of needle and rain into wind and gust entwined, Xuanzang feared little and hated still less. He expected no joy or rage, for this simply was, and when the last of those ridges broke apart, he knew who’d lost this fight.

Xuanzang: “But I’d like to be high-key for once.”

Huang Feng roared, blood gushing as a spell of chi mixed with that storm of gale, all he had left and all he could use. He had nothing left to spare, and still, everything to lose, and this urged the demon on, his blood seething into that final attack.

Then, from the sea, a flash of gold burst out, blinding wind and flooding ground, thrice the size of the broken peak and solid against the incoming spell. Five fingers stretched upon a creased palm, holy pillars amid a golden base, Buddha’s blessing surging from tip to wrist. Like the sun, it rose, eclipsing all in bright burnt shadow, itself built with chi divine. The Buddha’s Sodding Palm posed tall, summoned by soul and spirit in one, shining gold and burned with wrath, stronger than it had ever stood.

And in front, Xuanzang merely hugged Wukong to his chest. He backed into the light of Buddha’s shadow behind, clasped the monkey tight, and fell. That palm surged down and caught the monk in a flawless swoop, gold encased and chi merged in. Xuanzang shut his eyes against the light, willed that golden palm to close into a sculpted fist, and- slam!- felt it punch through wind and rock.

In front, Huang Feng stayed pinned, blood and breath lost in a final squeeze as his spell fell moot. The Sodding Palm flew his way, coated with holy fire roaring, and faster than water in wind. In a final bid, the demon screeched, his soul poured into one last cry as those flames splashed in, yellow eyes blinded and clothes singed off in a tide of burning blood.

Then all was white.

And a willow tree wept, whistled by wind as sun poured in. A butterfly sailed underway, crisp wings glassy in the light, a fractal of gold and blue.

Huang Feng trembled under that tree, loose hair brushed with leaves and face blanched with hot pain. His blood had not yet calmed and the Buddha’s holy fire still seared into skin, those robes now tatters and dried from rain. The demon brought a hand to his chest, fingers shaking against that gushing wound, where the cudgel had been and was now gone. He was free.

And even the pain was but a shadow of something more. Breaths lost, he stepped out, the sun blinding as he entered the field ahead, wildflowers and grass roots swaying with the summer breeze. And ahead, bare feet crossed soft dirt. He looked up. In front, a straw hat slid down, blue robes shifting under a tight silk sash, and teeth, slightly crooked, grinned. Twin umber braids danced in wind, and eyes smiled beneath a wool cap, its green stitched yellow.

Huang Feng collapsed, blood free flowing and all numb. She knelt beside him, shushed his moans, and stroked his sweating face. Fingers combed through his black locks, solid to their tips, and there, he knew-

“It’s you,” the demon whispered.

“Darling, come,” she told him, that warmth real, as bright as he remembered six-hundred-and-thirty-four years prior, not a second lost.

She stood and turned her back, a basket of roots bobbing in her arms. With a cry, he pushed himself up and followed, a hand poised to touch her sleeve. But he was always a breadth too late, for she was steps ahead, near skipping as she lead him down the slope of a hill.

And he stopped, gaping as she entered a village of wood, past a stone well and into a street patched with clay. Houses and huts stretched, creaky and new, painted with characters no longer used. Men and women walked about, working and peddling as their children played, and all decked in murky brown and blue. Their faces, long forgotten, but here, he knew each one, as if a firecracker had burst behind and told him of all he’d left buried.

He knew the couple who thought themselves rich, their fake porcelain turtle, the woman who brewed her daughter’s tea, the twins who killed their father’s ox, the elder begging by the toymaker’s shop, the boy and his sister who played with mud, and the farmer’s family of ten. And more. As if possessed, Huang Feng walked in, absent as he followed her to a hut of wood and straw, DOCTOR HUANG’S MEDICINE slapped in front on a slab of black wood. And beyond it all was the foot of what had been once been the Mountain of Flower and Fruit.

Huang Feng: “Please-”

But she did not look at him. Another man stepped out, a dark hat atop his head, paler still in his white robes, his splitting image from all those centuries ago. She touched his arm, and in a fine swoop, he held her in and kissed those lips, their lashes brushing.

“I love you,” he said. He’d said.

“What is this?” the demon heard himself ask, that couple in front sitting for tea.

He remained unheard. And again shaking, he gnashed his teeth. Tang Sanzang, you did this.

Huang Feng: “Tang Sanzang, get this out of my sight! Do you hear me, you damned priest!?”

But his screaming was for naught. His beloved kept her gaze on him , pure delight in her bright eyes, and he on her, he who Huang Feng had once been. The demon cursed Sanzang a thousand times over, but there was no respite ahead.

From a door within, a child limped out, a gap-toothed boy on crutches of wood. And with him, a girl sickly white and flushed happy all the same. They gathered around the lovers, and cheeks puffed, tugged at each party’s sleeve.

“Doctor Huang, play with us,” the boy begged.

“I’m busy,” Huang Feng heard himself say, this exchange long since lost and those childish faces shut away.

“I’ll play with you lot,” the doctor’s wife said instead, flicking her husband in the arm, and with a grin, put a hand on each child’s head.

The doctor sighed, a fake exasperation in his breath of air, and leaned down to peck his beloved on the cheek. “I swear, you’re just like them,” he’d teased.

And then, of his own accord, Huang Feng was leaving the doctor behind. Instinct told him to follow her back out, the children at her heels, and when the door again opened, he stood behind that couple in the dead of night, windless and sticky with summer heat.

“What do you think?” she said to him.

The demon made to answer, but his double did instead: “You never cared what I think. You’ll do whatever you fancy.”

She chuckled and said, “Then it’s settled. We’ll take those two in, raise them as our own.”

“Whatever you fancy, but don’t forget- they’re human.”

“And so what?”

He pulled her to him, a trace of anger in his breath- this, Huang Feng recalled- and mumbled, “You’re a demon.”

Above their silhouettes, a stream of torches lit in the dark, and there was nothing left in the shadows save the panicked faces of villagers pale. On canvas stretchers, they carried corpses of half-eaten men, mangled heads above ruined blood and bone, and on each onlooker’s lips, the words, “demon work,” whispered through. The crowd disappeared into the night, and when Huang Feng next turned, he was again in the doctor’s hut, that roof pelted with light dawn rain.

She was bobbing beneath him , the two groping and grappling and putting mouth upon mouth. Bodies bare, they broke apart, arms still tangled, and when those harsh breaths steadied, she spoke, sad, “We don’t have to leave.”

“The rumors are getting worse by the day,” Huang Feng watched him say, “they’ll find out eventually.”

“If we run, it’ll never end. This is our home- they need us.”

“And for what? Do you really think anyone’s going to say ‘hello’ to us after they find out? That they’ll still let us through their doors?”

“Calm down. Maybe not, but I’m no coward.” She kissed him. “And neither are you.”

“Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“The seven demon kings, one of them’s bound to listen. Even if just one- ask them to spare these people. Ask Sun Wukong, we knew him from Huaguo.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, I will.”

He sighed, brushed her loosened braids, and said, “Then we’d have a war for sure. Fine, I’ll try, just this once.”

She smirked and pulled him closer. They disappeared under the sheets, and a flash of lightning filled Huang Feng’s vision with white. He heard the rush of water first, and in the next blink, saw that white fade into light from beyond the falls around. Thick and lush, that curtain of water fell, clean as can be and crystal blue, an oasis destined to never dry.

His double stood in front, back to Huang Feng, and surrounded by Huaguo’s council of macaques and apes, jeering and hooting with a ferocity unmatched. And looking down on the demon was the Monkey King himself, decked in golden armor and fur rich grey, legs crossed atop his throne of stone. The phoenix cap shook as his uncomely features twisted into a mocking laugh, made nastier still by those sharp teeth.

“Is this a fucking joke?” that ape snarled, halfway chortling and halfway hissing, “you dance in here and ask what? I’m not some half-assed peacebroker!”

“I know it’s a risk,” the marten said, “but the hunters could leave us be. Your monkeys-”

“My monkeys are fine! We’re doing just fine. And if you think Old Sun’s dumb enough to start some devil’s war for some dimwit humans, you’re dead wrong.”

“Please, your highness, I come as a friend-”

“Huang Feng, listen.” The Monkey King appeared in thought, and Huang Feng remembered that dim spot of hope he’d once had when those eyes stared down. And how it crushed when the monkey jumped up, again bark-laughed, and cried, “Ma, Lyu, get him out of here! What a fine fucking joke!”

The marshals descended upon him, bulky armored apes more than happy to oblige their king. And as their monarch laughed, each monkey joined in, chittering and hooting and cackling straight to hell below. Out of instinct, Huang Feng shut his eyes as Sun Wukong’s crowd of subjects approached.

He opened those eyes to the smell of smoke. The doctor burned in front of him, writhing as wisps of smoke left charred skin, fangs pulled back and eyes stained red, devil’s markings now revealed. She knelt by his side, a bruise beneath one eye, teeth bared and arms stretched, as if daring that man ahead to step on. This face in front, he would never have let forget.

Top knot swaying, the Taoist priest waved his torch, a jingling of talismans upon his belt. He looked to that couple and said, “There you have it! These two had you all deceived! Demons right under your nose!”

The villagers crowded in, pallid faces unrecognizable in the dark, eyes holding none but hate and fear and ever more hate. It was a sight opposite of Huaguo’s macaque mob, and yet staring into them, then, at how vulnerable and human their features flashed, he found them more terrifying than any demon hoped to be. The double pulled her into his grip, waved his hand, and willed them both to disappear in a gust of yellow wind. Huang Feng fell into that spiral and landed on his feet in a misty twilight.

She tugged at his arm, face bundled beneath a cloak of green scarves, everything covered save those shining eyes. The village was alight with smoke and fire. Little devils ran in circles around, eager to prey and too cowardly to fight. The Taoist and his disciples swung their torches, townsmen gathered behind, and in the next spell, flooded all with ash and blood. Huang Feng grabbed her wrist, but that arm slipped out.

His double touched her instead, hair askew and robes singed grey.

“Let’s go!” he demanded, “for once, just fucking listen to me!”

“Our patients, our children- they’re all still there! They’ll die in those conditions!”

“So what?! It’s not worth-”

She swatted him away, that scarf falling as she backed off, eyes hurt and flashing rage. “Not worth what?” she asked coldly, “my life? Or yours? Because they’re human?”

He closed the gap between them, seething between teeth, and arms placed around hers, hissed, “Yes.”

She kneed him between the legs (this, Huang Feng had not recalled), and as he fell gasping, ran towards the village afire. The demon towered over his double, blood again dripping, and whispered, “Go after her. You fool, go after her now.”

But her mate remained where he was, eyes downcast and nails in dirt, too petrified to move. When at last he did, the world spun black, and when it stilled, Huang Feng fell upon the village square. She was bound with bloodied robes, forced to kneel before the Taoist’s feet. Yellow talismans papered her from head to toe, not a trace of pity in the onlookers’ eyes, all eager to see her die. And even then, her features were defiant and tall, no inkling of remorse in that soot-masked face.

Huang Feng screamed first, the vicious howl of a devil undone. The Taoist muttered his spell and she disappeared in a ball of flame. It scorched high, and with it- her arms around his, her lips pushing down, that toothy smile, a marten’s sleek fur- all that he’d known- a mating beneath the moon, warm breaths in the dawn, tea and herbs and a laugh in his chest- and left him dead. He did not hear her screams, for now, as it was then, he shut down, blood stopped and earth shattered, nothing to keep him there.

His double appeared in front, a man living yet dead, eyes gaping and sob in scream. He salvaged her remains, saving nothing but a talisman half-burnt. He pressed it to his chest, and all chi loose, hollered into the wind around. A storm of gales flashed through, needles in wind and the color of sand, and- whoosh!- took all away.

When it passed, Huang Feng saw himself fall, a wreck of caked tears and chi spent. Corpses littered what remained of that street, and hiding behind a slab of fallen wood, the children she’d once called her own. Them, she had saved and hidden, along with the rest of those the doctor once tended.

“Doctor Huang?” the girl asked, meek as can be.

That boy hobbled over and gulped back tears. The doctor picked himself up, eyes blank as he looked upon what should have been son and daughter.

“If not for you,” their doctor said.

Huang Feng: “Wait-”

And- slash!- their throats slit in a hiss of wind. Those bodies dropped, and he stepped past each head, not a glance spared. Huang Feng turned away, for he knew full well what happened next- he killed them all in that white fit of rage. And then the sun rose.

He was again on the hill, the willow tree gone, and at its corner, the double addressed a troop of fire-singed devils: “From now on, I am your king. Follow me and you shall live. No human, no demon, no one in all the three realms will ever harm you again. This, I promise!”

They moved on, and the ground rose, until Huang Feng again stood in Vulture’s Peak, the cliff undamaged and freshly carved. His double sat upon a half-chiseled throne, a yellow cape wrapped about his shoulders, and cast his subjects an impatient glare.

“I want this seat finished by dawn.”

“Sure thing, Lord Huang!”

The double huffed and looked away, when one of his soldiers burst in, a crying child in its arms. Curious, the demon lord took that child from its grip, cradled him within his arms, and wondered- if it was not too late to undo those deaths. Then, sneering, he sucked in the child’s chi, until nothing was left save a shriveled corpse. The devils laughed, and the mouth of that cave closed in. Then light flooded through and Huang Feng found himself lying on the bank of Heaven Reaching River, his double bathing within. A goldfish swam up, shifting into Lingang’s familiar form.

“What have we here?” the devil king said, “who’d be bold enough to wash in my domain?”

“Your domain? Consider yourself lucky I let you live.”

Lingang cupped the other demon’s chin in his hand, forced that gaze upon himself, and said, “What a pretty face. Shame I’ll have to scratch it off.”

The double grinned. “I’d like to see you try.”

Their shadows stretched, and soon, Huang Feng was staring into the kingdom of Huang Tian, his double in front and the Tang priest among that crowd. Lingang looked to his double and said, “That’s him, the Golden Cicada. I can already smell his flesh from here.”

“Watch yourself,” the other demon said, “we almost lost him too many times. I get first bite. Something like this, I’ve only dreamed of.”

“I thought you dreamed of removing man from the face of this earth.”

“And with his flesh in me, I can .”

“You do realize we feed on man?”

The double cackled. “That’s your problem, old crook!”

A firecracker colored the sky and rain burst through, followed by a final bout of thunder and wind. Huang Feng crumpled, his double’s voice fading out, Huang Tian shrunken and each memory gone. Then he rose, and fell once more, knees shaking and body summed with quivers and pain. It was smooth beneath him, for he now rested upon the Buddha’s palm, towering over the ruins of Vulture’s Peak. Light rain showered down and the last rumble of thunder came to a muted stop.

“Was it worth it?” her voice asked.

“Tang Sanzang,” Huang Feng mumbled, blood choked and a laugh near out, “well played, well played.”

“Was it worth it?” Xuanzang asked, looming over the fallen demon, tattered robes still bloodied, and the first disciple buried in his embrace.

Huang Feng met his gaze, finding not a trace of judgment nor pity in those dark eyes, the monk’s face blank and his aurora, eerie calm.

“All of that,” the demon said, voice struggling to stretch, “how did you know?”

“I didn’t know anything. You saw what you wanted to see.”

“I did not want to see any of that, you bastard.”

“Then it was what you needed to see.” And stooping until they were inches apart, the monk said, “it wasn’t worth any of this, Huang Feng. What you’ve done, you know already- she would never forgive you.”

Xuanzang kept his tone even, but he knew the words cruel, and though he hid some mortal desire to wedge that harsh statement in, he reigned his impulse in. He’d already willed the Sodding Palm to strike where that demon would hurt most- not his flesh, but what remained of his callous heart. And in yellow eyes, he recognized a flash of guilt, then regret.

Xuanzang: “The choice is yours. Let go and start anew, do what she’d want. Or wallow here- I’m sure no torment can match the hell you’re in.”

Huang Feng: “If Sun Wukong died, would you say the same thing? Didn’t he take your beloved too?”

Xuanzang looked to his monkey, smiled sadly, and said, “what makes you think he hasn’t already? But the answer’s yes. He gave his life so I’d go west. And let me say, Huang Feng.”

The Tang priest again stood, eyes locked on the demon huddled at his feet, and rain on his lips, said, “my eldest disciple is far nobler than you could ever hope to be. I’ve told you before- you’re not worth a hair on his body. But now I think I was too generous. You and he are nothing alike, could never be. You should be grateful to even breathe the same air he did.”

Huang Feng gagged, a crack of blood escaping his lips, and clasped a hand to his torn chest. The demon chuckled, laughter wet and ever mad. Even now, a man looked down upon his head, and there he knelt, stripped of his cape and hair undone, as battered and mauled as he’d been that ancient night. He’d ended right where he started and lost her twice. And if the priest’s words held true, then it was Sun Wukong who had changed in the end, and he, Huang Feng, was the same weak marten he’d always been.

“You said I had a choice,” the demon said, “but I have nothing left. My chi, spent. My body, ruined. My devils, gone. Even Vulture’s Peak…”

And the unspoken words, she would never want me now , he knew the monk had heard.

Xuanzang: “If you can admit to your sins, it doesn’t have to end this way for your soul. It’s actually really simple, don’t you think?”

Huang Feng looked at him, then, and again found no hint in the mortal’s eyes; the demon’s fate was left in his own hands and the priest’s stance was clear- he would not intervene.

“There is no hope for you now. I can’t lie. That’s true,” the monk said, “but repentance never denied anyone, not even you.”

“And what would you care if I repented?”

“I don’t. But I stopped hating you moments ago. I’m only telling you the truth- I of all people would know, you can always repent.”

Huang Feng let the blood fall from his lips, no more reason to smear it clean. He recounted his list of wrongs- of all those he’d tortured and killed, and sent out to die, for no other reason than to cause more death. That goal of his was now far away, vengeance plucked from his fingers at last, for in the end, there had been nothing to avenge. And he’d done nothing but prolong his ruin. And yet, he could not admit this fault, could not say his soul was burdened with guilt.

That same rage boiled in his blood, the same state which told him he could kill all under heaven and be proud, for somewhere in his broken mind, he still believed himself in the right. And this, he knew, was the greatest wrong.

Huang Feng: “No, not me.”

He stood on numb feet, body swaying as new blood sprang, and a hand held above his chest, rasped, gravelly and loud, “I can’t let go. And I can’t stay here.”

And- slice!- he drew those nails, now claws, across his wound, flesh again burst and blood sent flying, the as-you-would cudgel’s damage taken two-fold. Then, pallid, he teetered against the edge of the Buddha’s palm, eyes narrowed, as if to say, You won, Tang Sanzang.

Limbs freed, Huang Feng threw himself off its palm, body falling in a scatter of yellow winds, dark locks spilling as he hit the sea below. Body broken, his spirit parted into a hundred pieces, and a hundred more, and then, nothing was left save the shape of a bloodied marten webbed in feathering black mist.

Xuanzang watched, whispered, “Amitabha,” and held one palm up, a thin chant on his lips. The spell released that damned spirit from the ocean’s keep, and soon, the burning streams of Huang Feng’s soul slipped up into the sky like wisps of smoke. And then, nothing, for they faded under the weight of Buddha’s words, never again to touch the earth. Xuanzang released another prayer and looked to the sky, rain now parting like a knife through cloth. In that gap, orbs of white light appeared, so bright they scorched the Sodding Palm’s golden digits.

As those orbs floated near, Xuanzang squinted, and yet could not look away, near blinded as cool heat washed ahead. The lights merged unto one, flashing white then yellow, and at last flaming gold. And somehow he knew, this was right, and so, he gave himself away, left to the mercy of that amber wave.

Wukong was no longer in his arms. Instead, Xuanzang stood, limbs at his sides and the aroma of plum in his nose. But before he could look for his first disciple, the monk paused and chirped - and stunned silent, stared at the crooked legs ahead, the color of honey and bent on bud-shaped feet. Wings furled and unfurled behind, a strange weight upon his back, as if there were feathers in his spine and wax in his bones. Petals blocked his vision in front, pink washed blue by the night above, and upon the branch he stood, gentle breeze swayed between its leaves. A cicada? He thought.

Then Xuanzang saw a shadow cast over, haloed by the soft glow of a bright-lit moon. Hands cupped him- the cicada- with stiff fingers and a meek touch. Then eyes looked down, fresh and wide, at once lost and familiar all the same. The cicada chirped, and the monkey tilted its head, ever slightly to its right, soft fur whisked by coming wind. From behind, Xuanzang could see a tail twisting upon itself, that creature joyous at whatever it’d found.

But then- that scent of hay and dirt- Xuanzang knew who stared back. Wukong stood before him, humbled and small, as if newborn and coated with an infant’s hair. Clean from blood, the stress of time and pain had not yet touched his face- itself as unseemly as it’d always been- and that body was not ravaged by wound or scar. And a dash of nectar on his lips, the monkey brought Xuanzang to his nose, wrists pausing above that fluttering chest.

Gentle, he pressed a kiss to the cicada’s head, as quick as the first drop of rain. And mind rattled with the taste of plum and peach, Xuanzang felt those palms give way. He flew off and rose on dizzy wings, the moon in sight and air filled with blossom song. The cicada- Xuanzang- ventured a look, and below, the monkey kept his gaze up, fascinated with the creature he’d touched. Beside him, fireflies glowed, and as Siho* dwarfed, the grass and trees around him grew, thousands of flowers and fruits anew. Then Xuanzang entered a gap of mist, and Flower Fruit Mountain was left behind.

Sunlight blinded him next, solid ground again beneath his feet, the cicada’s limbs gone and a man’s legs returned. Xuanzang tugged at the cassock slung across his left, the right exposed from shoulder down, skin bronzed from sun and glow. He walked, steps light, as if the earth was air and air his earth, the sun following his every lead. Then, he realized it was not the sun- that glow was his and it shone gold.

The sound of bustling peddlers and carts on rock told him this was not the naked earth of Mount Huaguo. The glow subsided and Xuanzang felt himself turn from a shadowed wall, wood and tents all around, a village founded on the ruins of war. And still, its people worked and lived, mortals whose only care was to see the sun rise and set.

“Good! Good!” he heard a crowd cheer.

Silent, Xuanzang headed towards those claps, stopping when he reached the back of an audience at the end of this street. Peeking through that pond of dusty top knots, he saw a monkey in clothes, much bigger than the one who’d kissed him so long ago. But this one, Xuanzang felt with a pang, was the one he knew, with his grey fur and upper lip drooped. Wukong, he’d wanted to say. He willed himself to reach out and touch that monkey in the flesh, but his limbs did not obey.

All Xuanzang did was hear himself chuckle, that laugh his and at once not. Wukong leapt into the air, flipped on his heels, and landed on flat hands, a grin upon that nasty face, except then, it was not so nasty. The crowd flicked bits of copper into a clay bowl, still laughing and cheering as that monkey dropped to collect, knuckles in dirt and grimy robes too big. His hat slipped, and again, the crowd clapped.

Xuanzang turned away, though he’d rather have stayed. But from the corner of his eye, he saw that crowd disperse and a woodcutter pass, the words, “from where the celestials dwell” in his song. Wukong’s eyes lit up and the monkey followed that back of logs. Xuanzang heard the shuffle of logs and shifting of feet in earth, but still, he did not move. He only stood, far enough as he listened to the monkey attempt to speak and beg for help.

Then, the woodcutter answered at last, his tone wolfish and that voice shaken, “I can help you, sure. But I’m so hungry. I’ll need some money…”*

Giddy, the monkey nodded, and nodded again. Hand scratching hand, he asked, “How much? Much?”

He scrambled for the bowl, near dropped it twice, and shaking its contents, said, “This I have.”

“All of it.”

“Here! Here! You take. Then help.”

“Alright… the celestials I know live in Three Star Cave. They’re all immortal there. Go a little ways north, past the mountain, and two towns down.”

“Thank you! Thank you!”

Xuanzang heard the monkey kowtow, head smacking dirt, and when the logs again shuffled, knew the woodcutter had taken his leave. Then the man passed, and a low voice said, stern, “Be kinder.”

The words had come from his own throat, and as Xuanzang marveled at that strange sound, the man stiffened and walked on. He disappeared into the crowd and Xuanzang let his eyes slip shut, until a sneeze pulled him back into the world of light. He looked around, that village gone, and nothing ahead save an orchard of tall trees.

His shoulders were dusted with pink, petals having fallen like drifting snow, blossoms blooming left and right. Like fairies, they glided from tree to tree, an eternal breeze carrying those flowers through. A white blue sky spread above, sprinkled with light and a touch of wine. Xuanzang sniffed the air, and was at once drowned in the intoxicating scent of peaches divine. Even the grass beneath was gentle against bare soles, free from the coarse texture of earth and soft as those clouds yonder.

Then, lost in that cool breeze, Xuanzang felt something prick at the nape of his neck: a strand of hair loosened from the coiled locks upon his head. As he reached to feel that hair, he heard a whinny ahead. A horse clopped over, features handsome with a mane of black silk, its reins tethered to one gold-furred fist.

With his free hand, Wukong held a peach to his mouth and chomped in, its juices splashing across his golden fur, that face near-human and all else not. His soot cap sat askew and those robes flashed crimson,  pale cherry under light. The monkey spat out a seed the size of a babe’s fist and snickered, a flush to his cheeks, gold fur shadowed pink by the blossoms around. And though he knew this was but a fragment of heaven’s past, that yearning again bubbled in Xuanzang’s chest-- the need to be sure Wukong stood, unharmed and awake, with years and years ahead.

“Are you not the horse groomer?” that voice- Xuanzang’s?- said.

“What’s it to ya?” Wukong spat, his voice as it’d always been, yet younger all the same. “You here to laugh at me, asshole?”

And leaning against that horse, the monkey said, “Lemme tell you- I’m setting all the horses off today. Taking some peaches with me too- that’ll teach the Jade bastard.”

“Then I’ll be on my way-”

“Who does he think he is!? I’m Sun Wukong, the Handsome Monkey King! Doesn’t he know who I am!?”

Wukong stalked closer, still raving as he drunkenly said, “I’ll teach him, you bet, I’ll teach him! Then I’ll come back, and we’ll grab a drink and-”

“I don’t think we’re acquainted.”

“And we’ll see how he feels when I’m sitting on that throne!”

“That’s all very good, but I have somewhere to be.”

Wukong smeared the juice from his mouth with a ruffled sleeve, and Xuanzang found himself wondering if the taste remained. Then the monkey said, “Eh, where to?”

“The western paradise.” Xuanzang felt the corners of his mouth turn up, a smirk in its place.

He walked ahead, and stopped when that monkey cried, “Wait!”

A peach fell into his hands.

Wukong: “Take that, a gift from Old Sun!”

Xuanzang bowed, a laugh rumbling in his chest when the monkey grinned back, toothy and smug, a picture of glee that Xuanzang had so rarely seen. When he lifted his head, the orchard was gone, replaced with a violent storm, its rainy screams befitting a dragon’s worst tantrum. Then the saddle bounced beneath him, that same black horse crying out as he reined it in. Xuanzang felt himself stroke its mane before he jumped off, released the reins, and unwound the strings holding his cassock down. The fabric left with the harsh wind, bright gold amid charging rain, thunder and lightning churning in turn, one unto one and one into one.

Heart steady, he blinked away rain, folded his hands behind his back, fingers entwined and-

“You!”

He looked behind, only to see the horse groomer approach on all fours, red uniform soaked and hat blown off. Scorching terror in those eyes, Wukong stretched an arm towards him and cried, “You stole that horse!”

Xuanzang dodged his grip, and ever calm, said, “Please retrieve him now. His work is done.”

“You’re a mouthy one, aren’t you!?”

Laughter mixed in storm, and gait elegant, the Golden Cicada- for it could only be him- stepped back, and said, “Goodbye, horse groomer.”

Wukong stared, jaw agape, as if he’d just now understood what Xuanzang planned to do. And as Xuanzang tipped himself off heaven’s edge, straight into the expanse of falling sky, the monkey followed. Snarling, Wukong leaped, fingers just missing the tip of Xuanzang’s head, and shocked that he’d failed to catch that man, could only gasp as the horse pulled him back with a click of teeth. I could have saved you, the monkey seemed to say, I wanted to save you. There was a crack of apology upon his features, as if Xuanzang’s fall had been his doing.

Xuanzang felt himself plunge away, but his eyes stayed up, the image of Wukong’s perplexed face the last thing he saw before entering the mortal realm for good. T his is the face that caused havoc in heaven? And he’d wanted to say, you’ve done enough, stay alive here, that’s all I want from you.

The storm cleared as soon as he left the last layer of divine clouds, and it was then he knew that he’d crafted that storm himself. A dramatic escape for a dramatic celestial , he thought, not that I’m like that because I’m low-key .

He landed on his feet, and trembling from the load of rustling weight upon his back, Xuanzang moved on, the afternoon sun a shade of blood in sky. The woods towered around him, and he wondered if he’d come to a land of giants to see whatever was next. But then he saw the legs below, marveled at their knobbly knees, and blinked; his spine was arched with years long lived and it was this hunch that made those trees so tall. Lungs burning, he set his luggage aside and leaned against the stump of a withered tree. Xuanzang felt himself cough, chest rattled with something wet.

Ahead, a great mountain loomed into the fog-filled sky, edged jagged and carved into five, the pillars of Tathagata’s unyielding palm. Xuanzang wiped the spittle from his lips, again gathered his pack- shelves of canvas held by wood, the jingle of an alms dish hung on its roof- and journeyed on. Bandaged feet did not stop until he reached the foot of that mountain. Xuanzang removed a canteen of water with ginger care, curious eyes peering into the rocky bars of the prison in front, though the elder’s vision proved foggy. A lotus flower shook, and a trembling voice- broken and bitter- said, “Who’s that?”

Xuanzang knew that voice, and though it was dry, knew it to be much closer to Wukong’s repulsive snark. But the elder evidently did not, for as soon as the prisoner spoke, he gasped, “Amitabha!” and jumped from fear, water spilling from his jolt and falling into the cell below. Then he could hear Wukong’s hungry slurps, as if he hadn’t seen water for years on end. The first disciple had mentioned it once, had told Xuanzang he gathered water from the mildew of petals or the slip of rain. But that had been all, for neither much liked to dwell on the days of Five Finger Mountain.

Wukong laughed, or rather coughed, his rough cackles mad and wild, a demon’s cry through and through. Xuanzang whispered a chant and was on his way, eager to escape whatever devil he’d just met. But then that elder stopped, and whispered to himself, “the water…”

Xuanzang expected the old monk- himself?- to venture back, but the elder only shook his head, as if deciding whoever lay beneath that mountain needed it more. And with a breathless chuckle, he fixed the pack and moved on. This direction, Xuanzang knew, for the elder was heading west, and then he knew the old monk had died en route.

Xuanzang stubbed his toe against a pebble ahead, and stumbled forward, head rushing down. He caught himself on his hands and knees, the elder’s pack gone and night now fallen. He looked to his bruised hands, again young and the color of a man strong. Then his breath stilled, for these were his hands, not those of a stranger from lifetimes ago, and this, he knew, was that fateful night.

Xuanzang crawled, blood gathering in his throat, until he saw- it was an illusion, an image played back- Duan’s pale face, drained of color and smeared with mud and blood. He leaned beside her, choking on tears- tears that he’d shed a thousand times over since that night- and said, “I loved you since I first saw you.”

Their exchange continued, Duan in the flesh, solid and breathing for those final few seconds, Xuanzang weeping for whatever left. But it was the image of himself that wept. The Tang priest knew he’d healed that wound, though too late, and his tears for what-might-have-been had ended with Huang Feng’s last stand. Then why did the Sodding Palm lead him here?

“You.”

Xuanzang looked up, Wukong perched not far ahead, features as twisted and bloodthirsty as he remembered, his armor raggled and limbs blood-stained. He knew what would happen next- the monkey would laugh, lift his hand, and- he braced himself for Duan’s death to come. But the demon, for he had still been a demon then, only stood.

“It was always you,” the monkey said, surprise flitting across his face, that jaw near dropping and eyes gleaming with what could only be tears unshed.

It was . Xuanzang nodded, that body again his own, no illusion to keep him trapped. He smiled, eyes damp, and wondered how many paths they’d nearly crossed, how many more words exchanged if even one thing had been unlike. And how much worse or better they’d had been if the Golden Cicada had known this sooner, if he had simply known enough to say, it was always you and I.

Before either could say one word more, the ground shook with golden tremors, the very earth and walls around crumbling down. All else faded into blinding light. Duan too disappeared with the rest of that illusion, and Xuanzang realized-

The Sodding Palm had not meant to show him anything. Unlike Huang Feng, Xuanzang lived his visions in the flesh because he had only seen what his disciple saw. Wukong hopped towards him with a cry of, “Master!” And Xuanzang reached out, their fingers almost touching as the monk gasped out, “Wukong, I’m here!”

I’m here! I’m here! I’m here!

Then that light cut in, and all Xuanzang could see was the heat of an amber flash.

Jiu Gong’s chi finally gave way and those three buddhas again descended into the rumbling sea, its waves a tempest of fighting floods. With a dull groan, Bajie spun a spell Wujing’s way, enough to stop the fish from falling all the way in, and taking Ao Lie with. The vulture plunged towards the waters below, and refusing to go down alone, she dug her nails into Zhenyuanzi’s robes and dragged him down. Gurgling water, the patriarch entered sea headfirst, Jiu Gong gasping for air upon his back.

Zhenyuanzi grappled beneath for a good few seconds before he pushed away from Jiu Gong’s grip, and spluttering, bobbed his head up. Shooting a glare Jiu gong’s way, he said, “You vile vulture! How dare you-”

Jiu Gong: “What, did you want me to drown, geezer!? It’s self-preservation!”

Before the seething patriarch could reply, Wujing said, “Look!”

All four tilted their gaze, Buddha’s golden palm in the distance, five fingers burning and eclipsing all beneath. Its light washed the sea bright honey, and only Ao Lie’s sleeping form was not blinded by the incoming cut of gold. When that flash faded, the waves fell back from whence they came, suddenly calmed and as they were. And when Wujing looked up, he saw that the rain too had lightened to a faint drizzle, and soon, it’d be none at all. The sky had cleared, telltale signs of a storm’s end and dawn to come.

“Tang-Tang did that, huh?” Jiu Gong said, herself once a victim of that same palm, and looking upon it now, she would begrudge it this- it was nothing, if not impressive.

Wujing: “Master saved the day again.”

Bajie: “Another thing he’s never going to shut up about now.”

The fish nodded, and rake gathered, the second disciple jumped from the water, limbs shaking away drops of sea. He swung himself towards where that palm had stood, and with a gulp, wondered if Wukong was still alive.

“I’m here,” Xuanzang said, tongue muddled as his vision cleared, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

He was flat on his back, the glow of the Sodding Palm since faded, and nose pelted with drops of weak rain. As he repeated those words, his arms tightened around the disciple in his grip, Wukong’s blood spreading across the priest’s chest, eyes still slashed shut. Then the golden palm dropped, and Xuanzang felt himself plummet with a scratched cry.

He clutched Wukong tight and curled in, with all the intent to shield that monkey from whatever harm to come. And- splash!- the Sodding Palm slammed into the sea with a mighty fold of wind-high waves, and sunk until its gold shine was no more than a fleck of light from the coming dawn. Xuanzang prepared to hit the water next, but a firm hand snatched his collar from behind, near choking the priest as it pulled him back.

“Master!” Bajie called, lifting the monk into a boar’s solid hold.

“Wuneng!” Xuanzang gasped, “you’re alive-”

Bajie: “I am, and I’ve been so very concerned about you! Let’s not dwell on this, eh?”

As they glided atop that rolling sea, Xuanzang looked upon Bajie’s masked face once more. It was muddled with bruises and a harsh gash against one cheek, and though the second disciple was worse for wear, he’d never been handsomer in the Tang priest’s eyes.

“Bajie, we need to get Zhenyuanzi,” Xuanzang said, eyes again latched on the monkey’s form, so frantic he could only babble on, “Wukong’s hurt, he’s hurt badly, we need-”

“I know, Master, I know! The patriarch’s still here with all of us.”

Bajie cast the first disciple another look, his mouth run dry at the sight of Wukong’s shrunken shape, quite sure his spirit was dying as that blood no doubt spilled. Then, he said, quick, “We’ll be there soon.”

Xuanzang only nodded, eyes gleaming with a mad resolve, and held Wukong closer, all faith poured into Bajie’s words. The pig spun his rake into the sea below, a chasm of air enough to propel him on and into the path ahead. When he at last escaped the water’s pull, Bajie shuffled towards the shore in front, its bones soaked grey and dried with a sky blue cast.

He set Xuanzang upon the ground, only for the monk’s knees to buckle in a near collapse. But the patriarch caught him before he could fall, and trembling in Zhenyuan’s arms, that monkey still clung tight, Xuanzang whispered, “It’s over.”

Jiu Gong: “Fucking finally.”

Wujing: “Master, we need to get out of here!”

The vulture sat by Wujing’s side, both inches away from where Xuanzang knelt, all covered with the scent of salt and scattered wind. The monk stared up, past their shoulders and at the earth god not far behind. Children huddled around Tudigong’s earthy warmth and the patriarch’s servants flanked them still. The earth god cast Xuanzang a smile as the last drop of rainfall left, and shivering, the priest bowed back. Vulture’s Peak was no more, its devils slain and Huang Feng lost to the unyielding waters he once dwelled above. The demon was buried, and with him, whatever curse he’d set on the land and the peoples beyond.

And his breath yet steadied, the Tang priest implored upon Zhenyuanzi and said, “it’s Wukong. He-”

“I don’t think any explanation is necessary,” the patriarch replied, the surprise on his features having blurred into a grim worry, “one look at him is enough.”

“Is it so bad?” Xuanzang asked, eyes again dampened and that heart racing anew.

Wujing and Bajie crossed glances, mouths drawn tight and those heads half-bowed, for they knew the answer, worse. The first disciple was dying as they spoke, and this time, they knew, no amount of herbs or magic could bring him back. There was no replenishing such blood lost, no restoring such broken breath, no mending what brutalities his body had so suffered.

“Patriarch, answer me!” the monk said, voice heated by the fire welling within his chest.

“As it stands,” Zhenyuanzi slowly said, “the Great Sage only has a snuff of chi left, no more than a drop of dew. He doesn’t have enough to breathe, let alone heal.”

“But he’s alive!” Then softer, Xuanzang said, “I know he’s alive.”

Zhenyuanzi: “May I?”

Xuanzang lowered his gaze, expression lost as those eyes fell upon the monkey once more, forlorn and dry. Cradled in the Tang priest’s arms, Wukong lay, stiff as he was soft, limbs still and fur tangled, matted with red-fierce blood. And in each gash and tear, more blood welled, thick crimson free to flow without respite, as if each hurt was a creature unto itself and the monkey no more than prey to its cruel appetite. There was wound within wound and wound between wound, no part of that small shape clean of harm, body bound to bruise and blood like tree to bark.

Then, wordless, the monk eased his hold and held Wukong up, the edges of his fur stained with sun, bits of light catching on each strand, that golden glow no doubt from the dawn that had at last come. Zhenyuanzi removed the monkey from his grasp, Wukong as limp as a doll of rags and string. And as the patriarch examined Wukong from where he stood, Xuanzang could not help but feel an empty air in his hands. Wukong was no longer there, and the loss of his weight filled Xuanzang with nothing but a reluctant dread.

Watching, Bajie leaned closer to Wujing and said, hushed, “Is the boss…?”

Wujing: “I can’t tell. But-”

Bajie didn’t hear the rest, because Zhenyuan the Immortal chose that moment to lurch back and laugh, a chortle as deep and rippling as those sweeping waves.

“And you lot called me mad,” Jiu Gong sighed.

Xuanzang: “Patriarch, I don’t understand?”

“Master Sanzang, the Great Sage lives!” Zhenyuanzi cried, a spark of hope in those sharp eyes, “call it one of your Buddhist miracles.”

“Bullshit!” the vulture snapped, “he’s not even breathing.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Zhenyuanzi said with a glare.

He looked to Xuanzang, Wukong still in his hold, and said, “Your arm, Master Sanzang. How did it heal?”

“Wukong. He gave me his life chi,” the monk answered, those words heavy on his tongue, “patriarch, he gave everything to save me. Everything. He always does. ”

“Then the reason he lives,” Zhenyuanzi told him, “is because of you, Master Sanzang.”

All eyes fell on the patriarch, and blind to the confusion of his companions, Xuanzang could only blink and wonder if he’d heard right. Whatever thought he’d meant to voice had died as soon as those words left Zhenyuanzi’s mouth, and now Xuanzang could only let his jaw hang down.

How? Was the question they’d all planned to ask.

“Younger brother indeed has no chi left of his own,” the patriarch explained, “but the instance that chi became yours, his spirit did too. Don’t you see, Master Sanzang? As long as there’s breath in your body, he lives on.”

Heart again racing, the Tang priest nodded, numbed by the very words he’d so needed to hear- the affirmation, that yes, his Wukong had yet to die. But he’d near lost Wukong so many times, and this fear, he could not afford to shake,  so he asked, “I’m… elated he survives, but patriarch, how long can he last like this? I want him alive and well .”

At that, Zhenyuanzi glanced at Wukong again, made to stroke a non-existent beard, and said, “the good news is his spirit is tied to yours. How long, I can’t say. This is the first time I’ve seen something like this- I suppose, because he gave his chi willingly.”

Xuanzang: “Then- is he in pain?”

The patriarch hesitated, every gaze again on his lips, each breath baited for whatever Zhenyuan had yet to say. Wukong’s blood dripped on, and as it left hot blossoms on the shore below, Zhenyuanzi said, “Yes, unimaginably so.”

Jiu Gong saw the priest go pale, guilt and devastation clear as day upon his battered face, and if not for the morning chill, she would have thought him trembling too. The vulture bit her lip, and the moment tooth met flesh, she was halted by the sound of shell scraping bone. Jiu Gong glanced down, a scorpion- that scorpion - trying in vain to slide through unnoticed. With a grin too high, the vulture stuck out one foot and pressed on the demon’s crooked tail.

The scorpion yelped in pain, and heel flipped back, Jiu Gong kicked her upwards with a tip of toe. She fell into the vulture’s ready grip, and caged by those nails, could only squirm and cry.

“You!” Bajie said, quick to huddle beside Jiu Gong as Wujing strained to follow, “you have some nerve, showing up here!”

Jiu Gong flashed the scorpion under the light, shaking her head at the now-chipped shell and broken claws. What’s a minion without a master? She thought.

“I say we squish it!” the vulture said, voice pure delight.

Wujing: “What are you waiting for? Do it already!”

“No, no,” the scorpion gasped, “no!”

Then she was silenced by the pressure of Jiu Gong’s thumb, four fingers following as that palm tightened, and just as the vulture prepared to crack every piece of spine, a hand clamped around her wrist.

“What gives, Tang-Tang!?”

Ignoring the vulture’s puzzled glare, Xuanzang ran his fingers up her hand, and when thumb touched thumb, gently pried away her digits one by one. He took the scorpion into his own palms, and said, “This isn’t right. Huang Feng’s dead and she’s defenseless. Nobody else needs to die now.”

“Master, I beg you to reconsider!” Bajie said, “this vile demon has done nothing but belittle and injure us from the start!”

Wujing: “She tortured us, imprisoned you, do you really want to do this, Master?”

“And which one of you here hasn’t tried to torture and kill me?” the monk said, stern, though there was a glint of a smile in his saddened eyes.

Silenced, the two disciples could only look to the baffled vulture and wait for Bajie to offer a weak- “That was different”- for they knew not a single one was innocent of what the priest had said, not even Ao Lie or Zhenyuanzi.

“Say what you will, Tang-Tang,” Jiu Gong sighed, “this demon didn’t show your monkey any mercy. And he was a lot worse off than she is now. Geezer, tell him.”

“I respect your decision, Master Sanzang,” the patriarch said awkwardly, “I didn’t want to burden you with this just yet… but the vulture forced my hand.”

Jiu Gong: “Not my fault you’re a coward, old man.”

Zhenyuanzi: “As I was saying, there’s another reason younger brother isn’t healing. There’s devil’s poison within him. It conflates old injuries with fresh wounds, reopens scars, things that once mended. And-”

“There’s no cure,” the vulture said, “he can’t heal because old wounds are fighting new wounds. Body’s too busy melting organs and fucking itself over to do anything else. I’ve worked with demons enough to see what happens.”

“I wouldn’t have put it so bluntly,” the patriarch muttered, before saying, clearer, “the poison could only have come from that scorpion. It won’t stop until the spirit-”

“Gets fucked,” Jiu Gong finished, to the immortal’s chagrin.

Bajie: “So she’s a murderer too!”

“They’re- they’re lying!” the scorpion blurted, “I was forced, forced!”

Visage again blank, Xuanzang deigned to answer, knowing full well the demon was trying and failing to pierce his skin with her crushed stinger. He allowed himself a gulp of air, and lungs clean, walked past his companions and whatever lost comments were on their concerned tongues.

“Wukong would be happy to know you’re all so angry on his behalf,” the priest said, eyes locked ahead, “but it’s unlike him to show it.”

It had only been hours before, perhaps less, when he’d dragged Wukong out of the storming sea, but Xuanzang felt as if a lifetime had passed between then and the arrival of morning light. And yet that same moment was engraved in his mind, as if it’d happened now, not then, branded in with fire and stone. Wukong had bled out in his arms, final words whispered, and spirit undone. There had been no telling where that blood would start or end, each wound deep and deeper still, all ravaged until the first disciple had nothing but pain to spare. And even then, he’d sacrificed what little chi he had left, knowing full well there’d be no going back.

It had pained Xuanzang then, and it pained him still, but this hurt, he would accept, for it gave him an answer clear-- he knew what to do from then.

“If that poison’s so strong,” he said with a touch of grief, “then I’m to blame as well. He once told me the whip marks on his skin were my doing.”*

He came to a stop and peered at the sea, freckled with sun and waves smooth as satin blue. A light breeze tickled the helm of his muddled robes, all silent save the sound of washing sea and the children near.

Xuanzang: “I’ve beaten him so many times, allowed him to go through unspeakable torments for my sake. And he bore it all without complaint. I’ve hurt him as much as you, maybe more.”

Xuanzang arched, knees touching ground, and that demon still in his grip, kowtowed at the earth god’s feet.

“What do you think you’re doing? Stop!” the scorpion piped.

Then the monk said, “Tudigong, please lend me an ounce of chi. I wish to exorcise this scorpion.”

Surprised, the earth god raised his brow, but that ancient calm returned to his eyes before long, and nodding, he replied, “Of course, Tang monk. An excellent choice.”

He raised a hand and beckoned the monk forward, a dash of celestial chi surging at the tips of fore and next, a brush away from Xuanzang’s palm. The Tang priest bowed in gratitude, lifted himself, and touched the earth god’s hand, that contact just enough to receive a small shock of chi.

Then he looked to the scorpion still in his left hand and said, “My disciple’s body is in shambles because of you. But my going out of my way to kill you isn’t what he’d want.”

“Hold on, hold on,” the scorpion pled, “I can’t do anything for your monkey. Leave me alone!”

“Exactly. I’ll take responsibility for my monkey’s life. And you won’t be bothering anyone again.”

That said, Xuanzang dropped the scorpion into Tudigong’s grip, clasped his hands together- thought amitabha - and to the demon’s protests, started reciting the first of the three hundred nursery rhymes. This spell, he knew by heart, and as the scorpion writhed, Xuanzang knew its spirit had lost. The chant still on his lips, Xuanzang ripped a strip of sleeve and that cloth between, spread his palms across the scorpion’s back, and caped her in, chi enough to render her no more than a tiny doll’s head. Tudigong held her to the light and grinned, the scorpion’s face imprinted on a bundle of cloth and knots.

“Amazing work, Tang monk,” he said, “is this how you always exorcise?”

“Thank you,” Xuanzang said with a bow, “and yes it is, but I don’t speak of it because I’m low key.”

Tudigong chuckled, lowered the doll at last, and said, “For the record, Tang monk, I never tried to kill you.”

Xuanzang looked away, sheepish, and tongue suddenly tied, said, “Well- I- I wasn’t thinking of you when I said that. I’d never-”

Tudigong: “I was just kidding.”

Wujing swam alongside the makeshift raft, his back now free and Ao Lie lying in the patriarch’s grip, Bajie and Xuanzang sitting beside, the first disciple again in their Master’s arms. The children were bunched beside Tudigong, himself and Zhenyuanzi’s servants on the other end of that long raft. And between, the vulture lay, naked legs dangling in the river’s cool water, no trace of the tempest left. It was well into morning and only a touch of dampness remained of the night before.

Of them all, Wujing knew, only the earth god had any chi of use left, and it was by his hand that their broken raft moved. It moved at a flat, even pace and this speed, the fish thoroughly enjoyed, for he too was exhausted from the nightmare passed.

“Hey, fishead,” Bajie said, hand stuck to his still-bleeding cheek, “do you think I’ll scar?”

“It’d serve you right,” Wujing answered, and Bajie swore he saw the fish grin back.

Bajie: “Well, aren’t you optimistic.”

The two disciples shifted their gaze, then, for Xuanzang usually ended their arguments there if the monkey did not. But as if in a trance, the monk said nothing, still as a statue and eyes having never left the first disciple’s form. Wukong stayed limp in his grip, chest again fluttering thanks to a dash of the earth god’s chi, but his breath was shallow and heartbeat slow, each intake of air so strained and weak Xuanzang feared it was the very last.

Even so, he’d been told the monkey’s ribs were effectively powder now, that he should count his blessings those bleeding lungs still worked. Xuanzang was grateful indeed for the simple fact that Wukong had not died, but with every shift and move, he saw blood gather and drip from his disciple’s mouth. So the priest kept still, for fear that Wukong would die should he chance a move. And though he wished he could turn away, Xuanzang could not bring himself to look anywhere else.

He could do nothing but stare, watch as new gashes broke through flesh and old punctures bled away, himself helpless to do anything save keep Wukong near. It was a thought without base, but Xuanzang didn’t care-- somehow, some way, he believed his presence could make Wukong well.

“Tang monk, we’re here!” Tudigong said as their raft knocked against a shore of violet grey grass.

And finally, Xuanzang looked up, met with a landscape of rugged pistache trees, their leaves dry red and yellowed green in turn, the smoke of bonfire past bushes ahead, that slight distance dotted with what could only be huts and tarps.

The earth god turned to the children, smiles having broken across their grim faces at long last, and asked, “Now, who lives here?”

In Bajie’s memory, the sources of Huang Tian had described the kingdom’s surrounding villages as unflattering peoples who worshiped in cults and slaughtered one another for the simplest of sports. Huang Tian’s lion craze, he supposed, would likely disband now that the King of Spiritual Touch and Huang Feng - their false lions- were dead. And in his honest opinion, the villages were not even half as rude as the crowds of Moonfield had been. Their clothes were worn and they spoke a tad fast, but other than a few differing letters on tarp and stakes anchored by animal hide, not so different from who they’d seen at Huang Tian, if at all.

Their party had left Wujing in the river’s shore and followed Tudigong into the village nearby, returning each child one by one. And each time, the mothers and fathers would weep, and if not them, sisters and brothers or aunts and elders. Their tear-stained faces, red and muddied from too much crying, kowtowed at Tudigong’s feet. And more often than not, a mother would throw her arms around Xuanzang and choke on her many “thank you’s.” But each time, the priest would decline the clan head’s offer to stay and receive their thanks, for there was always another parent in wait.

When the last girl had been delivered, Jiu Gong called out her chief and said, blunt, “Give a message to the other villages- no more brat sacrifices. So stop killing each other over this. Those demons are dead. You’re all free to be stupid mortals without them.”

And unsure how to react, that chief could only clutch at his sleeveless robe and say, “I promise. Thank you, goddess.”

“I like the sound of that,” the vulture said with a grin, “but I’m just someone who does whatever she wants. It’d kill me to be a boring deity.”

Then she left him standing and joined the rest at the center bonfire, now a pit of morning smoke, suddenly aware that she was hungry. A most mundane thought! Bajie sat upon a carved log, dabbing at his face with a paste of herbs a healer had so kindly offered, and Xuanzang stood behind, Wukong still cradled in his arms.

“Where’d the rest of them go?” Jiu Gong asked.

Bajie: “Tudigong’s tending to little brother with one of their doctors and his healers- not sure how some humans could help. The patriarch’s giving a speech to crying parents. His brats are with him. Usually, Master would do that, but… you know.”

If Xuanzang had heard, he did not respond, but just as the vulture was about to address him too, the girl ran towards him in a coarse wool blanket.

“Elder!” she said, “thank you for saving us.”

“It wasn’t just me,” the monk replied, trying in vain to offer a worn smile, “go back to your parents and rest.”

“But elder,” she said again, now tugging at the edge of his left sleeve, “my uncle is an animal doctor. We can look at your monkey.”

Xuanzang only looked at those imploring eyes, the child’s heart on display for him to see: she believed she could help, and this innocence, he was not cruel enough to negate. And perhaps a part of him was truly desperate enough to cling onto whatever tendrils of hope were thrown his way.

Xuanzang: “Show me.”

The doctor took one glance and said, “It’s a goner.”

Then he again bowed his head, again lost to the pieces of bird bone he was attempting to reassemble, as if oblivious to his niece’s presence. And just like that, Xuanzang felt his hope deflate, though he had not expected much from a mortal medic.

“Uncle, you barely looked!” the girl said.

“I don’t need to look. With all the blood it’s lost, that monkey should die in seconds. Tragic, but can’t be helped.”

“Uncle!”

Xuanzang had a half a mind to tell that man, that monkey was the one who rid them of the demon preying upon their children, but chose to hold his tongue. He placed a palm upon the girl’s shoulder and said, “It’s alright. You tried.”

“But elder, what about him?” the girl asked, hopping to get a better look at Wukong’s sleeping shape.

And to Xuanzang’s surprise, she appeared on the verge of tears. Rubbing one eye, the child said, “Poor thing. He’s so tiny too.”

Had the situation been different, Xuanzang knew he would have laughed, those words all he needed to taunt Wukong to hell and back. Instead, the monk again patted her and said, “He’ll be fine. I know he will.”

“Do you promise?”

Do you promise? He had promised. He had promised to save Wukong, to not let him throw his life away yet again for a Master who’d taken him for granted far too long. And the Great Xuanzang of Tang was nothing if he could not even do this.

“I promise,” the monk said.

The girl flashed him a final smile, and together they left her uncle’s home, Xuanzang heading towards the bonfire once more and that girl running home. Tudigong and Zhenyuanzi had returned, their chatter ceasing as soon as they caught sight of the Tang priest. Xuanzang saw Ao Lie’s head resting on the earth god’s lap, a clean blanket draped over him and a flat space where his right arm had once been. Then his path was stopped by Qingfeng and Mingyue, Jiu Gong and Bajie a few feet behind.

“Master Sanzang,” Qingfeng said, “my Master has ordered me to tend your wounds.”

My wounds? Xuanzang had long since forgotten that not all the blood on his person belonged to Wukong, that not every ache was a result of fatigue and grief. He was still bleeding, and head light, Xuanzang could not help but chuckle, for it seemed such a silly thing to forget. And he supposed, had Wukong been well, the monkey would have pinned him down and forced him to rest.

But he had a promise to keep and he refused to stop here.

“Please wait for my return, then.”

That said, the Tang priest turned on his heels and walked off, Mingyue yelling behind him- “What the fuck!? You wanna die?”

“Tang monk, you’re still injured!” he heard the earth god call.

And even as Bajie and Jiu Gong appeared by his side, words of argument on their lips, Xuanzang found it strangely easy to tune them all out. He kept walking, vaguely shocked that neither had yet to grab his arm by force, and walked on, step by step until that village was far behind. In an effort to keep up, Bajie tripped, landing face-down, the distraction enough for Jiu Gong to stop and laugh.

“What are you doing?” the pig hissed, “go after Master!”

“It’s not like he can fly,” the vulture said, “and maybe we should let him have his way. The heart won’t stop until it gets what it wants, you know.”

“Then what does he want!?”

“I don’t know. But Tang-Tang’s a stubborn one.”

She looked ahead, towards the river bank where Xuanzang had reached. He walked on, Wukong held tight, and not a break in pace, even as the blood of Master and disciple mixed and splashed on grass, bright red on purple grey. Wujing’s head rose from the water, and shocked, the fish said, “Master! What are you doing?”

But the Tang priest did not answer. He kept along the river bank, some unspoken goal in his mind, that body possessed by fire and the spirit of a heart deadset.

Wujing: “Where are you going?”

Xuanzang stopped at last, stood still in the wind, and let the breeze blow past, fabric and fur bristling brief. Then, he said, “The Southern Sea.”

Chapter Text

The air was moist, kissed by the remnants of rain last fallen, itself a ghost of yester-storm. And where the river’s flood once touched grass, the sun beamed down from clouds still grey. Skylight curved along the river’s path, and a man wandered with, one sleeve missing and the other ripped. Grey robes fluttered as he stepped over stone and moss, the fabric brushed with blood-turned-mud. He stayed his course, in spite of wind and the fatigue of thirst, arms held tight above that battered waist.

And pressed to a ribcage, that monkey slept, unaware of the thrum in his Master’s breast. Two figures trailed behind, one cut in gold and the other masked white, both weighed by wind and the start of morning come. They had followed that priest for five days on end, braving light rains and the rest of wind, as starved and tired as he. Along the river curve, he only stopped twice per day- once for water, and again when the hour was darkest and he could not see. Then, the pig and vulture could do naught save watch Xuanzang sleep, the first disciple in his clutch, wounds bound with bleeding leaves.

At dawn, each leaf fell apart, weighed down with too much red. But Tang Xuanzang did not turn back. He fed the monkey with drops of dew, covered his hurts with fresh leaves, and took to his path once more. He spared no word for the rest of his companions, all his efforts used towards pushing on. He walked until his soles crumbled beneath, rubbed away with rain and rock. And even with feet scraped raw, blemished with sores and blood, Xuanzang carried his disciple on, no goal but one: the edge of the Southern Sea.

As he kept on, a fish cruised by that bank, fins rippling in Heaven Reaching’s ebb and flow. Then, as if drunk, the Tang priest dug his hands into matted fur, still damp with fresh blood running, and- splash!- hopped into the river’s way.

Throttled from his stupor, Wujing shook the droplets from his face and said-

“What the fuck!?”

Bajie jabbed his rake into the vulture’s hands, and shoes kicked off, cried, “Master, I’m coming!”

The second disciple splashed in after, and irate, Jiu Gong tossed his rake aside.

“Why’d you give this piece of trash to me!?” she hissed.

Bajie touched the end of Xuanzang’s sleeve, and only then, did the monk look back. The Master’s face was mottled with fresh bumps and cuts, a mix of shallow and deep nicks in skin. Bruises followed from neck to chest, deep against the color of weary flesh, and under what remained of damaged robes, new blood gushed from wounds twice-torn.

He looked far worse than Bajie had seen at dawn, and taken aback, the pig’s hand slipped.

Xuanzang inched out of Bajie’s grasp, wading with the water’s flow until he was out of reach. His robes bubbled to the surface like leaves in tea, and where their grey parted, Wukong’s blood clouded the river pink. Bajie cursed, and swiping blood from the clot pinching his own bruised face, paddled forward as Xuanzang moved.

The fish rushed to block Xuanzang’s path, a gurgled, “Master, wait” on his lips.

Xuanzang swam around his shape, Wukong held to his shoulder as the water rose from chest to almost-chin. From the bank, Jiu Gong laughed. “So the little piggy and his fishy friend can’t even stop one little monk!”

“Hello?” Bajie said, “are you helping us? No? Then be quiet!”

Jiu Gong: “You do realize you can glide on water, right, Marshal? You didn’t actually have to dive in.”

“I-” Bajie clenched his teeth, a burst of expletives held in, and said, “I forgot, because I care for my Master so much!”

“You’re such a fucking suck-up,” Wujing said.

Then, the fish cast his gaze on Xuanzang’s back, the shoulder now seeping with blood from the tiger’s scratch. “Master, maybe you don’t care if you drown, but if you keep going, you’ll drown eldest brother too.”

Jiu Gong: “Don’t listen to him, Tang-Tang! I’m rooting for you! Do what the heart wants!”

Bajie turned to her and snapped, “Do you ever shut up!?”

But Xuanzang stopped, for once pausing to feel the river’s cold rush. He looked around, at Wujing’s wide gaze and Bajie’s flustered face, both beaten and cold and just as tired as he. Jiu Gong too was wading in, hair undone and robes soaked soggy, barely any chi between all four. And as the adrenaline began to fade, Xuanzang again felt the ache in his tired bones, each pain married to his sliced flesh, all nothing compared to the wretched heart behind his chest. Five days and nights, he’d relied on nothing but mortal spirit and the strength of Wukong’s chi. He knew one was fading and the other had only this much left.

The monkey, once weightless, now sagged against him like a pile of stones, and already, Xuanzang found himself sinking down.

“Master!” he heard the disciples shout.

Wujing was quick to stop the monk’s fall, and as Xuanzang blinked the dark spots back, Bajie pressed a hand to his spine.

“Wuneng, Wujing,” the Tang priest whispered, “minister…”

In a daze, he looked to the clouded sun. “Forgive me. You’re right. Let’s turn back.”

Bajie signed in relief and said, “It pleases me so to hear your common sense, Master. You should go back and we’ll cook a hot bath for you, prepare a vegetarian buffet, and ask some pretty young maidens to-”

Wujing: “Asshole, that’s what you want, not the Master.”

“I don’t see you offering any better ideas.”

Jiu Gong chose then to squeeze between pig and fish, swiping Wukong from Xuanzang’s grip in one swift move.

“Well, if that’s what Tang-Tang’s fickle heart wants, let’s go!”

All the drama in the world would not be enough for Jiu Gong, but the idea of a hot bath did entice her. And though she’d yet to admit it, there had been more than enough entertainment for one day. If anything, all Jiu Gong wanted was fall asleep and ignore the consequences of their ordeal. Taking care of loose ends was her least favorite part of anything, be it poem or life in play.

“Come on,” she ordered the rest.

Then, nose wrinkling from the stench of blood, she added, “This ape needs a bath too.”

Wujing: “Hey! That’s our boss you’re talking about!”

Jiu Gong: “Wahh waah, ‘that’s our boss you’re talking about’ waah.”

“Master, come on,” Bajie crooned, guiding Xuanzang towards shore as the fish and vulture argued on. Nodding, the monk followed before giving an abrupt pause.

“Wuneng, I need to tell you something,” Xuanzang said quietly.

“What is it?”

Xuanzang shoved himself out of Bajie’s grip and again swam away from the river bank, snatching Wukong from Jiu Gong just as easily as she’d grabbed him before. The priest turned to them and grinned.

Xuanzang: “I was kidding, but I didn’t say so because I’m low-key!”

And chuckling to himself, he carried Wukong back into the current’s heart, Wujing yelling, “Fuck you!” after.

Bajie: “Master, what are you even trying to do? You can’t just swim to the Southern Sea!”

Jiu Gong: “The somersault cloud could get us there in a-”

She snapped her fingers and finished, “But you know.”

“Too soon!” Bajie gasped, “can’t you see our Master is sensitive? Show some tact.”

Then Xuanzang held Wukong to his chin, took in the scent of blood and salt, and- crash!- braced himself as a wave fell over. Heaven Reaching parted in two, then three, the current spiraling until air met water and river met sea. Pushed by those waves, Bajie slammed into Wujing, lips smacking against the fish’s own. As the two struggled to break apart, Jiu Gong was washed past Xuanzang’s side, path only stopped when she grabbed his legs.

The monk coughed up gulps of river, and when the water cleared from his eyes, felt his vision blotted with sun, a light so bright it was sure divine. The waves shimmered about, shaping a path towards the river heart, and Xuanzang could do nothing but float down. He could taste the sunlight, a sense not unlike what the Golden Cicada had felt in that drunk orchard. All was bright ahead, the water as clear as wind, a mirror of pure blue sky. Then from the river, those paths converged, until they twisted into a ball of bleeding light, gold underwater and fire from sea.

Bajie: “Are we dead!?”

He was answered by another punch of river. Xuanzang watched with frozen eyes, arms locked around Wukong’s form, the monkey unmoving save the swaying of fur. And the glow ahead burned a halo of gold upon that bloodied coat. The light faded into a shell of bright flames, and in Xuanzang’s next blink, opened into a throne of pink and white: a lotus flower floating atop green lily, shining ember in and out.

“Amitabha,” was all the monk could say.

From within those embers, a child stepped out, only half the height of those petals, each as tall as the elephants of kingdoms west. Twin knots adorned his head, the body shapeless and dressed in fair silk, and at his chest, both hands were clasped tight, each arm bound with a band of gold. He smiled, lips near cracking as that stiff face looked up, the skin pure porcelain and glistening like a doll of glass. But those eyes- a shade of black almost red, and set in soot- Xuanzang would not mistake.

“Red Boy!?” Jiu Gong said, “didn’t you die, you useless brat?”

Wujing: “Did he do something to his face?”

Bajie clung to a fin for balance and said, “And his arms. And legs. And his whole body, really… oh! I don’t want to fight right now. Let’s just leave-”

“No,” Xuanzang said, level, “I’m staying. Hong Hai’er, what do you want?”*

“None of you’d stand a chance against me,” the boy replied, the tone a strange blend of smooth angles and a demon’s pitch.

Then he groaned and fell to both knees, kowtowing before the river’s face.

“ Red Boy is dead. I- I am Shancai Tongzi now. So count your blessings- ugh, can’t even curse at you- because I will not fight you. Because...”*

A familiar voice cut in, one the Tang priest had not heard since the night they came across a mansion by the dry woods, when he’d looked into the face of its Mistress- Madame Liu.

“Red Boy is my disciple now. I saved him from death and fixed him a new shape- forgive him, he’s still learning to be flesh and blood.”

But the one staring down at them now was not the widow Liu. The lotus spread, first layer fanning into a second on top, and as the throne rose, Xuanzang felt his knees buckle in. Eyes teased down and bow lips smiled. Long black hair curled back, sweeping behind an angled jaw, all framed with white silk from bun to shoulder down. One hand rested upon her thigh and the other stood raised, thumb and forefinger pinched. Legs sat crossed beneath that dress, fabric whiter than white and brighter than light. And in her lap, a willow plant waved from a porcelain vase, nirvana’s glow in her every move and touch.

The Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea graced them with her smile. And the face of a woman named Duan.

“What are you waiting for, Tang-Tang? That’s my supervisor,” Jiu Gong hissed, “show some respect.”

The vulture bowed immediately, forcing Xuanzang into a wet kowtow. Unsure what to do, Bajie and Wujing followed suit.

“Shancai is brash, but give him time,” the goddess said, wry, “sometimes the nastiest little fellows have the most goodness locked away. That, I’m sure you understand best of all, my disciple.”

Shancai: “Who are you calling nasty-”

And- slam!- the boy, once devil, convulsed into a deep bow, voice shut as his jaw clenched tight. His bands glowed hot, then cooled, and Guanyin said in passing, “Mind your shackles , pupil. And forget not my rules- no cursing, no bullying, and-”

“No talking back, I get it already!” Red Boy- Shancai- snarled.

“B- Bodhisattva,” Xuanzang stammered, “it humbles your unworthy student to be in your presence. Sanzang was on his way to find you when you discovered him first.”

Then Guanyin cast him a knowing smile, as whimsical as it was old, and despite the face she chose, that was a look beyond the Duan he knew- it was the look of an immortal who knew life beyond life and saw the sea beyond sky. This, a mortal like Duan could never have managed.

Guanyin: “You found me, dear disciple. A clear heart and mind is the only path to me there is.”

She plucked the willow out and in a gentle flick, pointed it at his breast.

“Sanzang, I know what troubles you now is not what you came to me for. But as the Nine-Headed Vulture often said, ‘the heart wants what the heart wants.’ Everything is but a trick of the mind.”

Jiu Gong: “Really, Bodhisattva? How long are you and Tatha- Lord Buddha going to hold that against me?”

“Not everything’s about you ,” Shancai muttered.

Xuanzang clenched his breath, now seeing the others’ lackluster reactions to Duan’s face-- they had not seen it at all. But he had because that knot trapped him still, once because he could not move on, and now because he’d forced it loose. Duan no longer kept him bound. Xuanzang had chosen to keep her memory tied. And all the same, he’d felt the emptiness of betrayal, the idea that perhaps he could not be whole without the one who’d once been her. But that, he no longer believed, perhaps had not believed for a long time, and now knew he never again would.

Xuanzang: “I understand. Thank you, Bodhisattva.”

Guanyin was giving him one more chance, to release the truth and accept what may come. The storm at Vulture’s Peak had taught him enough, battered his feelings to hell and back, and left him so winded he knew now that there was nothing more to lose.  

And so, he looked into the eyes of the woman he once loved- still loved and would cling to no more- and said:

Bodhisattva, this isn’t what I want. Not anymore.

For that face, he’d willingly lost a thousand so nights. Endless dreams and nightmares had come and gone, of promises that he’d made too late. For her, he’d held onto grudges and hate, and the euphoria of love, visions of could-have-beens and hills of happily-ever-afters that would never be. For her, he’d almost fallen for a bone demon’s charm, and all the regrets he’d kept hidden so far inside, he now realized were long since gone.

You’ve aged well, Sanzang.

And so, he said-

“I beg you, Bodhisattva, save my eldest disciple.”

Xuanzang lifted Wukong from his shoulder, and gentle as he could be, held the monkey up, that body limp as could be. And the irony was not lost. The last time he had stood between Wukong and Duan, the demon laughed down before he dealt his final blow. And it had been Duan, torn and broken in Xuanzang’s helpless arms. But that woman was gone, and that demon was dead. Now it was Wukong bleeding in his hands, baring the very same face he had that night, and Xuanzang offered him to Duan’s visage, begging for nothing more than the monkey’s life spared. He saw the irony and he did not care.

“And what if I can’t, Sanzang?” the goddess asked, no hint of truth or lie. “The damage is great. And if by a miracle, he lives- this monkey won’t be the same. Would you still want him by your side then? If he can no longer fight for you, if he can’t fend off the demons after your life, if even walking proves too hard for him?”

“Your disciple once thought a woman was the love of his life,” Xuanzang said, head bowed slight, “Then I realized the journey west is my greatest love. This pilgrimage is my life’s purpose, the one thing I want out of anything else.”

And gaze touching the Bodhisattva’s own, her eyes so deep he saw Duan no more, said:

“But without Sun Wukong, I’ll travel it no more. I’d forfeit the western sutra for his life. Please, save him Bodhisattva, or else banish me from the Buddhist path forever more.”

Bajie allowed a silent gasp, eyes crossing Wujing’s as they both gaped. He was tempted to warn Xuanzang from this folly, but the monk’s sharp tone told them he would not relent. Instead, the pig mumbled, “Baldy’s gotten ballsy- is he really threatening Tathagata? In real life?”

Wujing: “I think… he is .”

Jiu Gong raised a hand over her mouth in mimed shock. And all was silent save the rush of river and lotus flame. Guanyin stared at Xuanzang then, not a ripple in that calm countenance, and as if pondering, stroked the willow in her grasp.

“Bodhisattva, let that ape die,” Shancai grunted, “the world would be a better place without-”

The gold bands shone once more and again, the once-devil slammed down face-first into a wet kowtow.

Guanyin: “We must work on your people skills, Shancai. Now-”

She stood from her throne, and in a near glide, stepped into the river, fabric dry. Effortless, she parted Xuanzang’s arms with all the grace of air, and slid Wukong into her smooth embrace. His blood colored the water near, but left not a drop on her white silk. And the goddess so close, Xuanzang could see how tall she was, more so than Duan had ever been. He had seen Tathagata so close before, the Buddha’s shape large and small at will, a cosmic being beyond the mortal sky.

But the Bodhisattva took a human’s form, almost mortal to look upon, and yet so close, Xuanzang could feel the tingle of divinity and the sense that she was not quite there. And that same cosmic air followed her every breath, from muscle to cloth and air to flesh. She was man and woman, and neither at once, god and mortal and still not. And yet, he felt her, that presence so real it almost seared.

“If what you say is true,” she said as she bent down, “then I’ll help you this once.”

Whispering a prayer to herself, Guanyin held Wukong to the water, softly pressing him under and onto the stones beneath. The blood parted from his wounds, fogging that patch of river with iron scent. Bubbles of breath gathered at his nose, and anxious, Xuanzang bit his lip as he waited for the goddess to speak.

When she finished, the Bodhisattva stood, Wukong held to her bosom, fur shimmering with fresh water slipping. The blood had washed off and in its place, hollow etches and gashes remained. The fur was left marred with strips of flesh lost and cuts of white bone, cracked to the marrow and loose from red. And eyes still burnt shut, the monkey appeared a child’s ruined doll, torn and ripped and broken to the seams.

Looking to Wukong’s beaten face, not an inch unbruised, Guanyin said, “I’ve cleaned his wounds, removed the salt and devil’s dirt... All that bravado and the Great Sage is still a dumb little monkey.”

She dabbed a thumb at the corner of his cut lip, as if soothing the hurt beneath. “Sanzang, do as I say and Sun Wukong has a chance.”

Guanyin dropped the monkey back into Xuanzang’s arms, the monk scrambling to catch him as the water rippled around. In his grip, the first disciple’s injuries again welled up with blood.

Xuanzang: “This one would do anything!”

“So would we!” Bajie added from behind, Wujing rolling those big fish eyes.

The Bodhisattva waved her wrist, fingers circling as the willow plant slid into the fold of Xuanzang’s robes, tickling his chest just enough.

Guanyin: “Remove the stem and burn it to ash. With the rest, grind it into paste and rub this salve over your disciple’s wounds. Make sure his body’s clean. Follow these orders with each change of the sun.”

Bajie: “We can do that! Right, Master? How blessed we are!”

“Please don’t interrupt, Tianpeng.” Guanyin then said, “And each day from this moment on, disciple, draw on your divine flesh and feed Sun Wukong a drop of blood.”

Immediately, the Tang priest shifted his leg, elbow resting so Wukong could lie in the crook of one arm. With his free limb, he lifted a wrist to his mouth, and teeth over skin, tore in until blood broke free. He ignored the sharp sting and shoved his wrist above the monkey’s lips, forcing that mouth open as his blood ran down. And blood rolling through Wukong’s throat, Xuanzang felt his own features run tight, hot crimson spilling all over the monkey’s small face. It was messy and ugly-- wrong in the damndest way, but Xuanzang found that he could not care.

He only cried out when Jiu Gong pulled him back, that arm swinging up, a string of blood left between his wrist and Wukong’s parted mouth.

“A drop , Tang-Tang! Bodhisattva didn’t tell him to eat you!”

Xuanzang: “Bodhisattva, how much does he need!? I have much more to give!”

Guanyin chuckled but offered no word. After a beat, she shook her head and said, “One drop will suffice. Please calm down, Sanzang, and let me finish.”

“I’m sorry, Bodhisattva,” the monk said, not calm in the least, “forgive me!”

Guanyin: “With the willow’s ash, light a stick of incense and place it by his bedside. So long as it burns, your disciple lives. Keep it burning for seven days and nights, and I guarantee you, he will not die.”

“Thank-”

She held up a hand and Xuanzang felt his voice die out, that elation suddenly dropping like a sack of stones at what she told them next.

“But before all this,” the goddess said, “remove the poison inside. He doesn’t have a cast of iron anymore. So take a mortal blade to his skin. Cut Sun Wukong open and bleed him out, bleed him until the poison’s gone, and only then can he heal.”

Xuanzang: “But… but…”

“ But how much more does he have to bleed? ” she finished in his stead, “that, you must figure out on your own. I can tell you this, Sanzang. Be careful. He doesn’t have much blood left to lose.”

The Tang priest nodded without much thought, as if pulled down by hidden strings and the sure grief of more pain to come. Jiu Gong cast a look at his anguished face, and failed to stop herself from saying, “Wait… Bodhisattva, can’t you just make this monkey better? Wave that magic willow and make everything well?”

Guanyin smiled, a witty spark again in her old eyes. “Now, now. If I always fixed your problems for you, you’d never learn to solve them yourselves, would you?”

The vulture couldn’t argue against that logic, and as the dismay spread across the pilgrims behind, Xuanzang chanced one more look upon Guanyin. The change in her features was ever subtle, shifted slightly by the thumb of wind, until those lips blushed fuller and that jaw grew soft. Duan was there no more. He saw the Bodhisattva as she was, and knew that she’d accepted his choice.

He recalled a dream of not-so-long ago, when Duan had asked him who he would save, should she and he fall into the ocean and drown. He hadn’t answered then. And now he did.

Wujing: “Master, what now?”

“We save eldest brother,” the monk said.

Then to Guanyin, he said, “I know we can. Bodhisattva, thank you. Your disciple is forever grateful.”

And Wukong still in his arms, fur and blood clinging, Xuanzang knelt and kowtowed as best as he could. His companions followed suit behind, and in front, Guanyin offered a gracious nod.

“Rise, Sanzang,” she said. “I must take my leave of you. Shancai will guide you down the river in my stead. Rest and recover. Then return to your journey west.”

Xuanzang: “I understand. Thank you, Bodhisattva.”

He stood, almost falling back onto Jiu Gong behind. Bajie was quick to grab his arm, and Wujing bubbled to his side. Guanyin clasped her hands together and stepped back, the current again wild as she took her throne. The water splashed over, left, then right, and in a wash of gold, the lotus flower furled, petal by petal until its light returned to sea. Like the sun to dusk, the glow set under, and what burned into Xuanzang’s mind was the image of Guanyin’s final smile, benevolent and knowing, and somewhat sly all the same. She tilted her head back, and the throne burst into a shower of lotus blossoms, the Bodhisattva’s shadow swirling into a storm of petals along. Guanyin was gone, and with her, she’d taken that light, until only nature’s sun remained.

Heaven Reaching washed those blossoms away, into its heart and every which way, little blessings for whomsoever would come across the bank that day. Shancai watched them leave, crossed his arms, and rather sourly, said, “Alright. Come with me, Tang-Tang .”

Jiu Gong: “Hey, that’s my name for him!”

But the former devil blew a raspberry her way instead.

“I was your boss, you punk.”

“Ah, shut up, you hag. Your f- dumb plan got me killed. Working for you was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Now I’m paying the price.”

Then, finger under one eye, he pulled the skin down enough to reveal a slit of pink. “At least I know you’re being punished too. Come on.”

Shancai jumped out of the water and like a dog, shook himself dry, snorting when the water sprayed atop the second disciple’s face. Pulling Xuanzang along, Jiu Gong waded towards the bank, Bajie at her back. Wujing kept to the river shore, and without remark, Shancai Tongzi, once Red Boy, son of the Bull King and Princess Iron Fan, lead them through the wood ahead.

They arrived at the height of dawn, noon not yet born and dusk a life away. Shancai pushed past a branch in his way, green leaves parting to clear a path ahead. He stooped to grab a scoop of red berries and tossed them into his mouth. Then he kept on, and behind, Bajie caught a whiff of chrysanthemum, its scent chilled by wind and baked with new-come sun. Curious, the second disciple followed Shancai through the next clearing and marveled at what he saw next.

A garden of pinks and violets lay ahead, winding over stairs and into a gazebo of lacquered red. Underneath, a pond stretched out, water clear with lily pads floating and mandarin ducks. Jiu Gong was quick to brush past Bajie, just as Wujing reared his head above that pond, eye bumping into the bridge atop. Xuanzang stayed at the end, Wukong’s head pressed to his shoulder and back cradled with one hand.

“No way,” the vulture said, running over the bridge with wooden clack-clacks.

She beat Shancai to the gazebo and all but flew down the rest of that bridge, ignoring the peonies and birds until she came to the foot of the temple in front. It was high, no doubt, and as wide as any manor there was, ornamented with umber roofs and carvings of Tathagata and his ilk. Biting her lip, Jiu Gong put a hand to the first pole she saw, itself solid and glossy and worn as earth beneath. Four poles held the roof ahead, front and back with two poles on the east and west, shading a porch of wood that ran under and all around.

Jiu Gong: “This is…”

Where a birdcage once hung, a windchime dangled instead, tied with string and singing in light breeze. Having seen enough, the vulture kicked the doors open, both flying open with a- creak!

She was greeted by the sight of clean floorboards, the ground empty save a pot of willow and a table for prayer. Six cushions were arranged beside, pointed towards the farthest wall, where a sculpture of Buddha looked down, tall, striking, and painted so well it might as well have been Tathagata’s face. The Bodhisattva’s wooden image sat adjacent, smile carved just as the one she’d left, as if she’d anticipated this very scene. Incense burned from a pot of brass and from the walls, inked scripture draped, the parchment old and stained with time.

Jiu Gong blinked, and blinked again, everything spinning as she took in that foyer and the light from windows that gaped in. Shancai and the pilgrims entered, looking about just in time to hear her say, “This was my temple. Who fucking redecorated!?”

“The Bodhisattva decided to reinstate your temple rights,” Shancai answered, “given your ‘good’ behavior. You’re only allowed to use it until the monk and his gang aren’t so fu- messed up anymore. And it’s not yours anyway- it’s Buddha’s now.”

“But who gave them the right to change it? It was so beautiful before, so classy, so amazing- now it’s so dull. Ugh!”

Shancai: “Not according to the Bodhisattva. She found it ‘hard on the eyes’ and ‘self-absorbed’ and ‘perverted.’ So we changed it. And you should shut up because I had to move everything one by one.”

The vulture twitched and pinched the ex-demon’s ear, Shancai barely blinking as she tugged.

“ You did this?”

“I was ordered to! And it sucked anyway. You had a hundred portraits of yourself and a bunch of base artwork that-” He glanced at Bajie. “The pig would enjoy.”

Bajie: “What… what artwork?”

Jiu gong released him and said, “Fuck. Then where’s my statue? Where’s the nine headed sculpture?”

Bajie: “Where… where is this artwork?”

Shancai shrugged. Jiu Gong clutched her hair, pulling and tugging as she fought to contain her rage. And before she could curse the Buddha once more, a voice spoke from the next room over.

“Your vile likeness is in the attic, with all the other ugly sculptures.”

Zhenyuan the Immortal stepped in, beard still missing and naked chin held high, adorned with a fresh set of silver white robes. Qingfeng and Mingyue flanked their Master, more than a little smug and clean of dirt, not a bruise remaining from the plight before. And upon seeing him, Xuanzang felt some cheer return, assured that at least the patriarch would know what to do from here.

He walked forward, and Jiu Gong said, “Who gave you the right to enter my home, geezer!? Fuck off!”

Mingyue: “This is public property now so you should fuck off.”

Qingfeng: “Correct. This is the Bodhisattva’s temple now.”

“You lot run off without a word, left me to cover all your loose ends- I even went back to Huang Tian to collect your luggage, and this is the greeting I get? If not for me, the innkeeper would have sold all your things,” Zhenyuanzi said with no small offense.

Luggage? Xuanzang blinked, having forgotten that they had belongings altogether.

Zhenyuanzi: “And Master Sanzang also has a life supply of broken hot cakes, if you’re interested.”

That, at least, Xuanzang remembered. He swallowed and throat parched, said, “Thank you, patriarch. Please forgive us for leaving- I hadn’t meant to inconvenience you. But how did you find us here?”

Zhenyuanzi’s gaze fell on Wukong for the first time, and a hand to his chin, said, “Well, I suppose your trip was for the best... One of the earth gods saw you along Heaven Reaching River some days back and received word from the Bodhisattva that you’d end up here should I ‘be interested in the Tang priest’s fate.’ So we came.”

Jiu Gong: “So you’re a trespasser and you’re nosy.”

“Please, vulture, for once in your life, please shut up,” the patriarch grumbled, turning to stare her down. But Jiu Gong was quick to glare his way, tiptoes rising as she leaned forward, head butting head and word against word.

“You know what, I’ve put up with you long enough, geezer! Tang-Tang doesn’t need you anymore so you can fuck out!”

Xuanzang: “Actually…”

“If anyone’s putting Master Sanzang in danger, it’s you , vulture. And need I remind you not to swear in a holy temple? So you should go!”

“Really? After everything, you’re just gonna cast little old me out? So high and mighty when you’re just another stupid Taoist?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what it means! It means you’re as weak as your beard- which you don’t have, ha!”

“Take that back!”

“Never!”

That said, Jiu Gong forced out an angry faked laugh, more like a cough than a chuckle, and Zhenyuanzi fumed beside, incoherent half-words behind clenched teeth. The patriarch’s servants exchanged a glance with Shancai Tonzi, the latter enjoying this more than them, and Bajie could do nothing but pretend to adjust his hat. And deeming enough to be enough, Xuanzang cried, “Please!”

He ignored the eyes that fell on him, and quite worked up, said, “Minister, patriarch, I wouldn’t intrude because I’m low-key, but Wukong’s running out of time and I can’t let you waste any more.”

Then, thinking to the one person who could take his side, asked, “Now, where’s Tudigong?”

Red in the cheeks, Zhenyuanzi slid a final glare Jiu Gong’s way and said, “Longevity Mountain. The earth gods were called away not long ago, so now he’s watching the ginsengfruit while I stay here- of course, I assured him I’d take care of you.”

“Then do so,” Xuanzang told him, more commanding than he’d expected. And he told the patriarch all that Guanyin had said. And outside that temple, Wujing shouted the words- “Hey, you left me out here!”

The attic was a hall in itself, stationed with grimacing demons that glared down, axes and swords clutched in their wooden hands. They stood tall, eyes painted black, and all as imposing as their mirrors in hell. Dim candles shaped their shadows, equal parts sharp and soft, a series of reds and blacks that blended into sculptures that only lacked breath. Bajie shuddered as he scanned their faces, some fresh-painted and some since dulled, the figures somehow worse than any demon he’d actually met, perhaps because he knew these were surely dead.

Backed against the farthest wall, King Yan sat with a piercing gaze, the texture of his robe so real it could almost flow, and his servants flanked him left and right, Ox-Head and Horse-Face remade in wood. Candlefire burned under Yan’s red face, and still, the hall was as cold as winter past. Tiny figurines stood in rows in front, mortal shapes tortured by the devils who kept their sins, each carved face more agonized than the last as the realms went on. Bajie gulped as he stared back, and not quite thinking, adjusted his dirtied clothes before turning to where Zhenyuanzi stood.

The patriarch and his servants stood dead-center, circled around a tub of wood, half the height of Xuanzang across. Jiu Gong watched, tense, stiff under a bronze vulture’s nine heads. And in that tub, Wukong floated atop the water within, the bath colored pink as those wounds again flowed.

The whole setup filled Bajie with a strange unease, and he wondered if he should have stayed downstairs with Shancai. But he decided the Master needed him more, and perhaps a part of him did feel guilt for a portion of Wukong’s damage. Then, if the first disciple lived, that would be enough.

“Master Sanzang,” the patriarch said, eyes questioning the monk’s face, “are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me do it?”

“Or me, Master?” Bajie added.

Xuanzang shook his head. In truth, he’d rather have done this anywhere else, but Zhenyuanzi had insisted the poison be released in the demon hall. And under the watch of King Yan, the immortal believed they could know for sure whether or not Wukong was spared. The Tang priest cast his gaze down, at the dagger clutched between his shaking hands, its hilt bandaged and the blade straight silver.

Xuanzang: “No. It has to be me.”

Bajie laughed nervously. “Does it really?”

Jiu Gong: “I think Tang-Tang’s right. Bodhisattva wouldn’t test him otherwise, eh?”

The monk gulped dry, throat more shriveled than ever before, and shuddering from head down, approached that tub. He looked at Wukong’s sleeping shape, the monkey’s fur gently parting with the water’s ebb, and could not help but think, “I’m sorry.” Once, he supposed, to cut the first disciple open had been all he’d wanted to do. He’d buried that desire under prayer and prayer again, the violent urge to avenge and kill never quite purged. He had wanted to break the monkey as he’d broken Duan, as he’d broken him , had wanted nothing more than to watch him die and leave nothing spared. But Xuanzang would always ask himself, when he had those thoughts in the deepest night, “and then what?” And then one day on the journey west, that rage had somehow quelled.

But now he knew, that rage had never quite left- it had been in every strike of his whip, in every stinging word he’d sent Wukong’s way. Because only now, when he wanted nothing more than Wukong to live, when he was forced to hold a dagger to Wukong’s flesh, did Xuanzang know that rage was gone. He wanted to drop the blade and hold Wukong near, assured that no harm would dare touch the monkey again.

But he could not.

And so, Xuanzang cried out, those frustrations twisted into a desperate shout, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Mingyue jump in shock, just as the knife met skin. Muscles tight, Xuanzang cut through fur and flesh, that blade pushing into Wukong from the collarbone down, mere inches from the heart and right to the hip. Red splashed over Xuanzang’s hands, staining knuckles and the dagger’s hilt, bits splattering along that tub edge. And Wukong jolted, a burst of crimson at his mouth. Then from that wound, blood poured out, washing water with a scarlet storm.

Dizzy, Xuanzang felt the dagger slip from blood-slicked hands, watching as the bath turned red, then black, and black some more. The monkey drowned in his own blood, poisoned as black as ink, and still caught up in an endless string of- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m”- Xuanzang fell with a hard- thud!- shoulder against wood and sleeve soaked dark.

 "Ao Lie, wake up.”

Bleary, the dragon felt his vision come back, but all ahead was a dull back, unlike night and somehow cold. But the figures in front burned bright hot, so warm he almost winced as they approached. The command had come from one of the two.

“You’re such an idiot,” the other one said.

Two girls stood in front, barefoot and dressed in commoners’ too-large clothes. The fabric was aged and stained with dust, their sashes greyed but perhaps once blue. The taller child had her hands on her hips, foot tapping at the edge of his head, as if ready to kick him awake should he again doze off. Her eyes were bright with a wild glint, brow a little too deep, and ponytail held back by a tattered string. Beside her, the shorter girl mimicked that  stance, arms crossed and tiny face freckled. When she spoke, he caught a glimpse of a gap-toothed mouth: “Ao Lie’s so stupid!”

They couldn’t have been older than four-and thirteen , if not less, and Ao Lie could still tower over them by a good two-three heads. And then he remembered- he was Yulong, Prince Ao Lie, third heir of the western sea, and these vagrant children, daughters of human peasants, had no right to insult his name. In fact, they had no right to use his name at all-- that was a privilege they did not have, and when he was about to snarl just as much back, the older girl cut in:

“You let Wukong get hurt!”

Wukong. Sun Wukong. The Great Sage Equaling Heaven. Puti’s first disciple. Xuanzang’s eldest pupil. “Big brother,” he heard himself say, “big brother…”

It came at him like lightning undone.

Ao Lie remembered everything about Vulture’s Peak and what followed, the rain and thunder and Wukong’s wounds- his own vow to stop the devil’s storm, and then save a vague resentment towards Sha Wujing, nothing at all. He was at a blank.

“Where’s big brother?” he said. Where’s Master? Where am I? But there was nothing around save the children in front, and they looked so mad they were on the verge of tears. If anyone should be crying, Ao Lie believed it should be himself.

“You were supposed to protect him,” the younger one said.

They looked alike. Sisters. Sniffling, they dropped those stances and fell into each other’s arms. Ao Lie was seized with some ache he could not place, as if he’d seen this before- no, he had been there before- as if he longed to join in. He felt their pain as if it were his own, and while they yelled at him, wondered if perhaps it was his own.

“We never said sorry,” he heard the elder sister say.

Sorry, for what? He did not see, but rather felt, some shadow in front, familiar and bloodied as it approached. And himself, of his own accord, shrunk back. The shadow left and he stayed rooted. But that was not him. (Not anymore).*

“He’s dying,” the younger said, “he’s hurt. We said we’d save him.”

She was looking at him. They both were. We said we’d save him. I said I would save him. My name is- WaWa, Xiao Hua.

My name is Ao Lie.

“We will,” he told the girls, told himself. Ao Lie pulled them both into his embrace and filled with sudden warmth, gasped as the two turned to fire and twisted around. But he felt no fear, and as their glow burned, the black melted away, fading until at last-

He woke.

Chapter Text

Wujing rolled under that bridge of red, zigzagging between pads of lily and birds that came to rest. He circled the gazebo, and near the garden’s edge, flipped on his back. The nearest frogs were shocked away, tossed by the slam of water that followed his stunt. The third disciple let his gills soak in pond- cool and fresh and brimming with life- sighed, and stretched his fins.

Friar Sand felt his strength return, enough vigor to hold his chi, and with a cry of triumph, he rose from the garden pond. Water dripped from his blue scalp down,  human shape at last regained, from arm to leg and lung to heart. How long he had stayed in the water, Wujing could not recall-- all he knew was that he’d slept and swam and did little save a fish’s ticks. Eyes looked to the temple in front, its doors opened to sunlight come and its windchimes married to passing breeze. Breathing with nostrils for the first time in days, Wujing rose to his full height, skin still soaked wet, and from the very bottom of his diaphragm, laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

At that voice, Wujing heard his laugh fizzle. Grin now grimace, he glanced at its source. Bajie stood behind a crimson pillar, again wearing the face of that lovely gent, and lightly fanned his loose hair, unbound as it slid down his waist. A thin scab still marked his cheek.

Wujing scoffed, stomach turned at the pig’s very sight. “Nothing to do with you. Where’s Master?”

“In there, with Zhenyuan and his brats. And that vulture… and the boss.”

“Oh? So he’s alive?”

“Who, Master or eldest brother?”

“Answer the damn question!”

Bajie closed his fan in defeat. “You’re always like this! So vague and then you snap at me- why, fishead?”

“Because you’re an asshole!”

“Calm down!” Bajie stomped towards him and stopped his foot at the edge of that porch. “They’re both alive. Master should be fine in a few days. And the boss is like that . Happy?”

Wujing: “Get out of my way.”

And before the pig could quite respond, Friar Sand stepped onto the porch and bumped him aside. Bajie yelped and said, “Hey! You got my clothes all wet- I don’t have many robes left!”

“I don’t care!” the fish replied, “shut up.”

Scowling, Bajie wiggled out of his outer coat, a layer of white silk, and said, “What’s with this attitude? You’re still mad at me, for what- saving the day? Didn’t we literally kiss and make up?”

Wujing loomed over him, and though the pig knew himself stronger, Bajie still stepped back. Leftover fury not yet gone, the fish glared down with ten knuckles clenched. “You only wanted to save yourself, second brother.”

Then Wujing turned his head and walked over the threshold ahead, dripping water all the while. Bajie bundled that coat into a ball and threw it at the third disciple’s back. It hit Wujing in the spine, and when the fish turned to yell, Bajie said, annoyed, “Cover yourself up, asshole. This is a holy place- your endowment’s showing and it’s as blue as the rest of you.”

According to Qingfeng, he had stumbled into the foyer, delirious with fever and fatigue, and declared himself emperor of the four seas. Ao Lie had wanted to rebuke him, but knew himself well enough to know that was, in all probability, what did happen. He remembered little about what happened between waking up and waking up . He’d blacked out several times as he wandered Jiu Gong’s temple and was quite sure he heard Mingyue say, “I liked him better when he was asleep” at least twice.

And each time, he’d wake up in bed with a different cramp in his back. The prince knew he had tossed and turned and cried out, thinking of nothing as he tried to fall asleep. And some part of his beaten body yearned to shift into the dragon’s shape, something he was certain should not happen indoors. This was the pain that gnawed most at him, an all-consuming beast that overtook all sense.

And it was not until, perhaps the third or fourth day after his return to the conscious world, that Ao Lie felt himself once more. Or what remained of himself.

I’ll never be father’s heir now.

He lay in bed then, pale hair fanned behind, body atop the covers so he could feel the breeze and sun fall in. It was warm against his skin, a nice contrast to the cool ceramic beneath his head. He clutched a cornflower in his left hand, thumbing the petals again and again as he fought the dragon’s urge within. A tray rested on the table at the end of his bed, a short stack of wood that Qingfeng used to serve him food. The servant had offered to feed him, but the dragon had dismissed him with a snarl.

“Father would be mortified,” he’d thought, then amended, “No, Ao Run wouldn’t bother to care.”

Using a spoon was not as hard as he’d imagined, but chopsticks would take some time. And a dragon’s life span was long. Ao Lie had, in mortal terms, eternity to learn. His right shoulder itched from hour to hour, the bicep now a stump bound in fresh gauze, the bandage looped thrice around his chest. There was no ache in his lost limb, but Ao Lie couldn’t help feeling some strange pang there, as if the forearm tissue was somewhere still. Then his right fingers would move and he’d feel nothing at all.

And he knew it was this blankness of nerves and space that unnerved him so.  

And this, coupled with his need to grow full-scale, was too much to keep the prince at bay. Deeming himself well enough to seek the others out, Ao Lie sat up, smoothed his hair with one hand, and hopped off the bed. The delusions and fever were gone, so with nothing to distract him, he was sure to go mad all alone.

The boards of one paper wall were pulled back, lifted by their wooden frames so his room could open into the yard beyond. He saw tall green and fresh plums blooming, a smiling Tathagata sitting at the center of those trees, placed above cobbled stone. In the distance, he heard the sound of a running creek, with water raining into a bamboo chute. The dragon followed that sound, careful to keep his balance as he walked through the path winding straight.

He altered each foot, right, then left, balance skewered from a limb’s weight lost. But the cobbles were cold against the skin of his soles, just enough to distract his thoughts. When he crossed the garden and the Buddha’s head, Ao Lie wobbled, stabled only by the pillar in front. Another room was open ahead, no walls at all, so he went in, the space empty save the cushions and sets of tea, clay and china and brewing hot.

Ao Lie did not stop for a drink, though the whiff of chrysanthemum did his heart well. The prince sat at the open room’s edge, attention caught by the tiny creek running past, the water caged in by peony and the constant drumming of a bamboo ladle. The ladle was held by a string, tied to a tree by that small creek’s end, and Ao Lie saw the string stretch on, into the woods, and perhaps back to the yard in front. And- ding!- he heard the soft clack of a wind chime ring through the air. It mixed in with a quack, and when Ao Lie looked down, he saw a family of ducks row by, feathers brushed with black and white, and stripes of red and blue.  He watched them swim in peace, until a duckling caught his eye.

Its head was bobbing, belly struggling to stay afloat, wings half the size of the others so far ahead. None had stopped for the little duckling. Indignant, Ao Lie reached in and scooped the duck up. He sat on the edge of wood, feet dangling in the water, and that duck on his lap. It nibbled at his clothes and the dragon heard himself giggle. Embarrassed, Ao Lie turned it to a cough.

“Oh, so you’re alive too.”

Ao Lie turned his head, just as Jiu Gong sat down, having popped in from nowhere at all.

“Where did you...?” he said, too drained to say more.

The vulture’s hair hung loose, undecorated, and for once, Ao Lie saw her in simple fabric, almost uncannily dull upon her flamboyant person. She crossed her legs, and elbow on lap, touched a sharp nail to her lips.

“This is my tea room. I should be asking you that, brat.”

Ao Lie frowned. He had no retort on his tongue. In truth, the last time he had spoken with Jiu Gong was moments before he flew to Three Star Cave, and the battlefield next. Now that it was over, he had no more to say. Evidently, she had heeded his words in the end and come back.

“I don’t know,” he told her, “I just needed air.” I wanted to know if I was alive.

He was about to stroke the duck’s head with his free hand when he remembered that he had no free hand, and that lack of limb sent another shock of dread through his head. In his delirium, he was allowed to escape these thoughts, and now it dawned on him, fully, truly, that his arm was gone.

Jiu Gong: “I’m feeling generous so you can stay. I’ve got a beautiful place, don’t I?”

“It’s passable,” the dragon said, and before Jiu Gong could snap, added, “nobody’s told me. Where’s my Master? And my brothers?”

Jiu Gong made to reply, then bit her tongue, mouth contorted into a strange half-smile. That was a question she’d hoped Zhenyuanzi had answered, and now she had to play the awkward part of replying Ao Lie’s woes. The vulture was not in the mood to see any more crying, not after all the pubescent sobs she’d had to hear at Huang Feng’s base and beyond.

“Tang-Tang’s fine, just a little banged up,” she said, “pig and fish are out front if you want them.”

“And what about big brother?”

And there was the question Jiu Gong wanted to answer least. But the dragon’s gaze told her he would not relent unless she answered, for better or worse.

“I don’t know.”

Ao Lie: “What do you mean, you don’t know?!”

Startled by the prince’s outburst, that duck started squabbling, nudging left and right as if fought to escape. But Ao Lie held on tight, blue eyes alight with some dragon fire.

“He’s fucked up, super fucked up. I don’t know what else to tell you. Even the Bodhisattva doesn’t know if he’ll make it, alright?”

And- quack!- the duck slipped out, hitting the water with a resounding splash. Ao Lie was gripped by a vision of some dream past, a peasant girl screaming in his face- you let Wukong get hurt.

“Is he injured that badly?” the dragon whispered.

Jiu Gong elected not to answer, eyeing Ao Lie as the prince bowed his head, shoulders shuddering as he wept. Then he interrupted that silence with a loud, “Damn it!”

Ao Lie wrenched that hand into his hair, fingers grasping scalp as he said, “I just wanted him to live. I wanted everyone to live.”

“Hey-”

“ I was supposed to die, not big brother!”

“I didn’t say he was dead, kid! You can still-

“What can I do?” Furious, he waved the stump of an arm and cried, “Look at me! You were right, vulture! It was useless from the start!”

His jaw clenched, every frustration coming to a head, and as the prince held back his sobs, Jiu Gong yanked him into her grip. He landed with an- oof!- and she pushed his chin until his eyes looked up, glistening with salt.

“First of all,” she growled, “I never said anything was useless. I don’t do ‘useless,’ brat. That’s not my motto. Second, I could care less if any of you died but the truth is we’re all alive, even that fucking geezer. And third-”

She flicked two fingers at his empty sleeve. “What’s wrong with missing body parts? When’s that made anyone useless, huh? You’re still going on the Tang monk’s stupid pilgrimage, aren’t you? You wanna talk useless- now, Huang Feng, he was useless. Did all that for nothing, helped nobody, couldn’t even beat some mortal.”

“But-”

“Are you a painter?”

“No-”

“Are you a calligrapher?”

“No, I had servants for that-”

“Do you want to be any of those things?”

“I don’t know-”

“Then use your other hand to paint and write, use your tail, use those horns, you’ve got a lot going on. And you’ve still got your lovely hair too! Tang-Tang’s missing his hair and he looks like the moon from the back. It’s hilarious!”

Ao Lie wriggled from then vulture’s hold, dry tears still on his cheeks, chalk white after so many days in bed. He again looked to the small-winged duck, still valiantly trying to swim upstream, and said, “When you put it that way…”

“And you’re still what, the fifth prince of the northern sea or whatever?”

Ao Lie huffed, feeling a bit of yesteryear’s arrogance return. “The third heir of the western sea!”

Beside him, Jiu Gong laughed, that same mocking cackle she’d used for allies and enemies alike. Ao Lie turned away to grumble, just as she twisted a lockful of his hair in her hands.

“You should really tidy this up,” she said, half-whistling as she began grooming his hair into a high ponytail, pale strands pulled back.

Ao Lie felt her fondle those locks in silence, and after a beat, confessed, “I made big brother a promise I couldn’t keep.”

“I make promises all the time. Who cares.”

And again trapped with a layer of gloom, the dragon said, “All I did was make things worse for him. I said I’d stop the storm. But it wasn’t enough.”

Jiu Gong tightened a ribbon- pulled from where, Ao Lie did not know- in a knot around his hair. “I don’t give a shit about whatever it was you promised. But you said you’d stop the storm and you did. That ape never wanted anything from you, alright? He doesn’t look it, but Sun Wukong’s one of those old school ‘I’m proud of you for doin’ your best’ types.”

Ao Lie pursed his lips, asking himself if what the vulture said to be true as her fingers slipped out of his hair. The missing weight of his arm almost unnoticeable, he asked, “Did you do your best, vulture?”

“Kid, I’m at my best every day. Get on my level.”

“If you say so.” The dragon shook his head, wistful as he tapped the duck with one toe. “I just don’t understand why you’re talking to me. I thought you hated all of us.”

“I told you that because I wanted to.”

Then Jiu Gong grinned, as effortless and kind as those sinister features would allow, and said, “That’s how I do things. And if you’ve got a problem with that, you can go fuck yourself.”

And lightly, Ao Lie smiled back, a stone lifted from his chest, replaced with that duck’s desire to swim on.

He was famished. Upon waking, Xuanzang’s first sensation was that of gnawing hunger, a very mortal pain he could ignore no longer. As his stomach rumbled, the monk stared at the ceiling above, patterns of lotus carved into wood. Then he realized he was atop a bed, flat on his back and under thick covers, everything clean and soft and lovely to smell after so long surrounded with nothing but rain and dirt. His eyes shifted to an oval of light, the result of sun pouring through a carved window on the wall adjacent. And across, he saw a statuette of Guanyin on a table slab, a pile of clean robes folded beside.

As he looked at the goddess, Xuanzang’s raggled mind began piecing together where he was and all that had taken him here. And as the memories locked in place, he shot up- Wukong - and immediately hissed. Blinking back black spots, the priest glanced down, met with gauze layered around his shoulder, winding across the ribs and coming to a stop just above the belly button. The rest of his skin was pale, unhealthy from fatigue and colored with bruises old and new.

He touched his throat, scratching at a bandage that wrapped over where he’d made that cut. That gaze fell on his bandaged wrist, just as a voice said, “You are awake, Master Sanzang.”

Startled, Xuanzang looked up. Qingfeng was standing in the doorway, a tray in his hand. The servant made his way over and said, “Master said you would come to soon. Then it is fortunate I prepared your meal. Are you hungry?”

On cue, the monk’s stomach sobbed, and as Xuanzang flushed, Qingfeng set the tray on his lap. Steamed rice stared back, grains practically glowing in the morning light. Bean curd and salted tofu sat in round dishes beside that bowl, and a petite teapot stood next to a cup of clay.

Xuanzang: “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” Qingfeng replied.

Xuanzang pushed the tray away, and in a cracked panic, said, “ Two days!? Where’s Wukong- he needs-”

“Master Sanzang, please calm down!” With surprising strength, the servant held Xuanzang’s shoulders in place, and as the monk twitched and struggled, said, “I know Elder Sun needs your blood. We drew from you twice. See?”

Qingfeng pointed to the bandaged wrist, and that blind fear fled from Xuanzang just as quickly as it had come. In relief, the Tang priest sank back on his pillow, scalp pressed against its silk coat, suddenly winded by the shock that passed.

“How is he?” the monk asked.

Qingfeng poured tea- and upon closer inspection, Xuanzang saw it to be water- into that cup and said, “Not yet conscious. Master and I have done all that you instructed. It will please you to know the poison is gone.”

Xuanzang nodded, though he knew there was no joy to be found. He thought of Wukong in that tub of blood, and quickly shook the image off.

Qinfeng: “And seeing as how Elder Sun’s life is now dependent on yours, I suggest you eat as much as you can. It will do him no good if you fall ill.”

The Tang priest couldn’t argue with that, and the fire in his stomach needed no more incentive to fulfill its crave. He picked up the cup and dumped the water in his mouth. As he swallowed, chopsticks snapped, and within minutes, that rice was gone, the monk having devoured everything in a fervor worthy of his disciples’ own.

Then, as he licked his lips clean, Xuanzang said, “Qingfeng… who took care of me, then?”

“Ah…”

Please don’t be Jiu Gong. Please don’t be Jiu Gong. Or Bajie. Please no!

“I did. Friar Sand helped bathe you.”

Thank you, Lord Buddha. For the second time since waking up, Xuanzang felt a wave of relief. And sighing into his hands, he asked, “My other disciples, they’re well then? Wuneng, Wujing… Xiao Bailong?”

Only then did the monk realize he had not asked about the dragon at all, and he couldn’t recall if he ever had. He’d sensed that the fourth disciple would live, but in all the commotion of Vulture’s Peak, Xuanzang had failed to see how injured the prince had actually been. So I failed not one, but two disciples , he thought.

Qingfeng: “They are functioning. Prince Ao Lie lost an arm.”

“What?”

Qingfeng nodded in affirmation, as if he hadn’t just dropped those words like daily weather. If Ao Lie wanted to retreat to the western sea after this, Xuanzang wouldn’t blame him- in fact, he’d be willing to give the prince a glowing review to bring home. But he knew none of it would return what Ao Lie had lost. Three hundred or not, he was Xuanzang’s youngest disciple and the monk felt that of all four pupils, Ao Lie was the closest to a son he did not have.

And fathers did not let their sons lose arms. Guilt-ridden, Xuanzang told Qinfeng, “I’ll have to find Xiao Bailong later.”

“Once you have rested, I will take you to all your disciples and my Master.”

“Take me to Wukong first. The others can find me there. Let’s go now.”

Xuanzang was about to leave the bed when Qingfeng stopped him with a gesture of the hand. “Wait, Master Sanzang. Allow me to return your dishes to the kitchen. A clean cassock is on the table. And there is a chamberpot under your bed- I suggest you use it.”

Xuanzang: “Um-”

“I shall be on my way.”

Qingfeng kowtowed once before collecting that tray and gliding out the way he’d come, door closing gently behind. And overtaken with another desperate urge, Xuanzang fell from the bed in a clumsy clutter, bandaged feet shuffling as he dragged that chamberpot out, sweet relief a second away.

Shancai stood on the temple porch, cheeks puffed as he blew at the windchimes dangling above. From the rooftop, Jiu Gong slipped down, landing beside him like a drunken cat before she drawled, “Why are you here?”

The Bodhisattva’s disciple turned around, wind still in his mouth, and said, “Boss lady sent me. Wanted to know if Tathagata’s golden monk was still alive.”

“Yeah, he’s breathing.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

Jiu Gong propped herself against the door, one foot raised and arms half-crossed. An awkward quiet colored the air, but she was never one who shunned awkwardness; on the contrary, she rather liked it. There was something stylishly entertaining about the discomfort and she welcomed it.

“So how are you?” the vulture asked. “You left us pretty soon that day.”

“Bored out of my mind. Can’t cuss, can’t kill, can’t even talk back. And I have a curfew- Bodhisattva won’t let me stay out too late.”

His ringlets shook. “Or these stupid things burn me.”

The vulture laughed, a chuckle that bubbled through her nose, and Shancai glared.

Shancai: “It’s all your fault, vulture. You set me up in Biqu. We’ll have fun , you said, we’ll eat the Tang priest , you said, take over the world , you said. You’ll be king , you said. Ha! Can’t even look my papa in the eye anymore!”

Smirking, Jiu Gong replied, “Nobody forced you to do anything. Got yourself into this.”

“I was the Boy Sage King! Now I’m a Buddhist- how did this happen!?”

“Well, tough luck! I was the Nine-Headed Golden Vulture. Now I’m babysitting Tang-Tang and his pets. And I can’t even decorate my own house- how do you think I feel?”

“You’re really self-centered, you know that!?”

“That’s great, coming from you !”

Eyes flashing red, Shancai hugged his arms, knuckles white as he resisted the urge to fight. Bits of smoke from his ears, the ex-demon swallowed new fire and mumbled, “Amitabha” under low breath. Then, arm bands tinged red, he looked to Jiu Gong and said, “I forgot what a bad team we made. So… how are you?”

The vulture chewed her lip and raised a brow in thought. “I’ve been good. Believe it or not. I haven’t felt this good in a long, long time.”

Shancai eyed her with a scowl, as if he didn’t quite believe what she’d said. But he took it in stride, sighed, and said, “Whatever. Since nobody’s dead, I’m heading back to the Southern Sea.”

He tipped his head at her in a mock bow, and hands clasped, spun on his heels the other way. As Jiu Gong watched his backside move, the vulture couldn’t help but say, “We made a pretty bad team, didn’t we?”

“Ha! The worst,” he spat back.

And then, quite truthfully, she mused, “You’ll make a good team with the Bodhisattva.”

Shancai: “Whatever.”

He was gone, only a trace of smoke where’d he last stood. Jiu Gong blew at it, and that too faded into morning wind.

Qingfeng pushed open the door at the corner’s end, a glimpse of the modest room behind as he bowed and pointed Xuanzang in. It was evidently smaller than the quarters they’d assigned the monk, but Xuanzang couldn’t see a touch of dust within. It was apparent that Zhenyuan and his servants had cleaned the room well. From the door in, one wall was made of solid black, and the rest, framed with brown and papered white. The scent of willow filled the air, light and wet atop incense, one stick jutting from the soil of a long brass pot, itself upon a round dresser of wood.

And by that dresser, a thin bed stood against the westmost wall, gigantic compared to the figure lying on top. Xuanzang did not wait for Qingfeng to step aside. Breathless, he approached, legs quivering as he dropped to his knees, clean robes shifting. And he crawled on, until he could see the rise and fall of his disciple’s frail chest.

Wukong lay in a cocoon of gauze, bandaged from the neck down with swaddles thick and thin. Xuanzang could see parts of pink where his blood still touched. Strands of fur poked from where the white ended at his hands. His arms rested above the covers, pulled up to the waist, and what remained of him could only lie beneath. Xuanzang put a hand to the monkey’s face, fingertips soft as they traced that bruised mouth up, past the nose and to where the next bandage came.

A swathe of gauze ran across the monkey’s eyes, binding his face from the muzzle up, what remained of his skin a sickly shade of grey. And looking at that broken body- shattered, put together, and crushed anew- Xuanzang felt a fire nip at his chest, overwhelmed with a need to weep.

“Elder Sun’s wounds still open every few hours,” Qingfeng said as he worked behind Xuanzang, fidgeting with a box of something in his hands, “and his fever has been consistently high. Master says we just need to wait the seven days out. I have changed his sheets twice already.”

“Twice?”

“Yes, he soaked them with blood. I could not salvage them with water.”

Xuanzang let the statement sink in, a lump swallowed in his throat. As tenderly as he could, the priest took one of the monkey’s hands in his own, rubbing a gentle grip over where those fingers bruised. And he held on.

Xuanzang: “Qingfeng, when do we change his dressings?”

The servant knelt by his side, that box held up for Xuanzang to see. Qingfeng removed the lid of wood red, and looked to the mint salve within.

“This ointment comes from the willow you gave my Master. When the bleeding starts, I remove the gauze and bathe him in the stream outside. Then I coat him in this. There is too much to stitch otherwise.”

“That’s fine,” the Tang priest said, “the last thing Wukong needs is more pain.”

Qingfeng capped the box, nodded, and set it aside. Then, after a moment’s pause, said, “Master Sanzang, I know it is not my place to ask. But it seems that the Great Sage has been injured since the first day I met him- is he wounded often in your travels?”

Xuanzang couldn’t help but laugh, the noise sadly strained. “Why do you ask? Is he not living up to expectations?”

“I apologize,” Qingfeng said, with no hint of apology.

Still smiling, the monk replied, “I don’t blame you. I asked the same thing. Whatever it is you knew about Sun Wukong, it’s true- his cast of iron, his fighting prowess. Nothing could touch him. Nothing could hurt him.”

But he remembered the whip. “Really hurt him.”

Qingfeng waited for him to talk on, and so, Xuanzang said at last, “He’s gotten weaker since…”

Wanting to love me.

“Since…”

Being stupid enough to love me.

“Since…”

Loving me.

The Tang priest trailed off, lips shutting of their own accord, and sensing that the monk would not speak on, Qingfeng said instead, “You do not have to answer, Master Sanzang.”

“Everything I say now’s going to sound silly anyway. I was in a coma for two days, right?”

Qingfeng nodded. Xuanzang eyed the box of willow salve, and pressing Wukong’s hand lightly, sad, “You can leave the rest to me. I’ll take care of my eldest disciple now. Just bring me a chair and-”

He looked to the wall across, perpendicular lines running straight down, as if those borders were ready to break apart.

“Open that wall. We could all use some fresh air.”

Qingfeng: “Of course, Master Sanzang.”

The servant shut the box and slid the box Xuanzang’s way. Then, palms flat on floor, he kowtowed against wood. Qingfeng stood, marched to the opposite wall, and unfolded its panes one by one, until fresh sun streamed in. He promptly left, no doubt on a mission to procure the Tang priest’s chair.

Left alone, Xuanzang massaged that limp hand, mindful of the broken flesh and grateful for its warmth all the same. Ahead, plum blossoms swayed, and every so often, a petal fell into the rolling stream below. Xuanzang watched the water flow, below the wooden deck and around a statue of Buddha’s form. He had no doubt the yard beyond that stream spread into a garden behind. What looked to be an empty room stood open across, a family of ducks bobbing by. The temple’s compartments seemed to link into one another left and right, and Xuanzang could only surmise they were at its central square.

Seems like something the minister would design, he thought. And again, he looked to Wukong’s blinded shape-- had the monkey been awake, perhaps he would have snorted and rolled those whites. Had he been awake, he would be sitting in that tall tree, rocking with the wind, a twig in his mouth. He’d grin and say, Looking for me, baldy?

Xuanzang: “Bad monkey.”

Xuanzang clutched that hand to his cheek, only then feeling the tears well up.

“Bad monkey,” he said once more, “I told you to go away. But you never listen to me, do you? Now look at you.”

He felt the salt spill, bits of water and tear staining the blanket bit by bit. But the monk refused to wipe them off.

“Weren’t you hurt enough? Can’t you be a little more low-key for once? How hard was it to stay away from me?”

He tried to picture Wukong on that tree, but the image was gone, replaced with the monkey bloodied in his arms, whispering his final breaths into Xuanzang’s ear. The lump in his throat went down and Xuanzang could not stop a tremor, pressing his cheek into Wukong’s still hand.

“How about this, bad monkey?” he said, each word hitched, “Master won’t beat you anymore, will never use the Sodding Palm on you again. And I’ll never yell at you- but we both know that’s impossible.”

Xuanzang chuckled to himself, the humor lost. “You won’t have to fight for me. You’ll never have to lift that staff of yours if you don’t want to. I’ll never let you take another scratch for me. From now on, Master will keep you safe. Deal?”

Outside, he heard an ugly bird’s chirp, or perhaps it was his own clumsy sob. Xuanzang pressed his brow to Wukong’s head, as he’d done back at Vulture’s Peak, and gripping the monkey’s hand in both palms said, “All you have to do is live. So wake up and let Master know you live.”

Wukong stayed still.

And Xuanzang was too choked to say the rest- I don’t hate you, I’m sorry for all the pain I caused, I forgave you a long time ago, now forgive me, please, Wukong, live, live, live - as footsteps sounded behind. He was still blubbering when Qingfeng placed the chair, a small black bench built for one and patterned with golden birds. Sniffling, the monk looked up and turned to Qingfeng, those tears still rolling, and said, “I- I’m sorry.”

“I understand, Master Sanzang. Please do not mind me. Cry to your heart’s content. I do not judge.”

Xuanzang nodded, too worked up to speak, and shifted his neck again, this time burying his face in the pillow by Wukong’s head. And the Tang priest sobbed, weeping well into the hours of afternoon.

Inked brush in hand, Bajie wandered along the temple grounds, stopping every few steps to jot a poem along his fan. The pig had nothing to do save walk and rest, and eat when mealtime came, and aside from the lack of maidens around, he had little complaint. Jiu Gong’s temple was spacious, if not a far cry from the castles in heaven, and he supposed Zhenyuanzi’s boys offered service enough. He would let their rudeness slide, for the second disciple was just glad someone else was there to clean his sheets and cook their meals. How low my standards have gotten, he mused.

He’d yet to abandon the dandy’s face, though a shadow of a scar remained, and some part of him not in the mood to see his true visage reflected just yet. The third disciple had managed to sour the pig’s spirits in the morning and Bajie had yet to regain them.

The worst of yesterday has since past,
Then why is it I still weep?
When my own knife remains,
Wedged in thine heart.

He read the poem and snapped the fan shut. He should be elated, all things considered- the pilgrims all lived, Vulture’s Peak lay in ruins, and they had a rich temple to convalesce. But Bajie felt nothing save a dim sorrow, as if whatever had happened all those nights ago could not be undone. And a knot, so foreign and ill, twisted in his gut, something he hadn’t felt since the death of Lady Gao-

Guilt.

And it seemed that returning to their band was not enough to make it go away. Lost in self-pity, he took another step and bumped into an empty sleeve. He looked down and the fourth disciple stared up.

“Second brother,” Ao Lie greeted, surprised at how happy he was to come across another pilgrim, even if it was Zhu Bajie.

“Little brother,” Bajie replied, “my, my, I’d thought you’d died.”

Ao Lie held his chin high and said, “I’m the third heir of the western sea. Unlike you, I can’t be killed with such ease.”

The dragon hoped for more banter, some to take his mind away and remind him all was as it was. But the second disciple seemed to be thinking of other things.

Bajie: “Perhaps that’s true.”

The pig walked on, and Ao Lie was quick to follow, earning more than a few confused glances his way. But Bajie did not seem like he wanted to shake new company off.

“I didn’t know you could get any paler,” the second disciple said, “you look like a ghost. You need sunlight, lots of it.”

“I know that, second brother. Why else do you think I’m out here? To urinate? I’m not like you lot.”

“You lost an arm when you really should have lost that terrible bratty attitude of yours.”

Ao Lie stopped and ahead, Bajie turned back, wondering if he’d gone too far with that string of words. But all the prince did was huff and say, “I’m not the one with a scar on my face. Too bad for you.”

Bajie: “You hurt me.”

Then the dragon was back by his side, the two walking up that garden path. Ao Lie caught a glimpse of the pig’s fan, the characters of a poem flashing by, and intrigued, he said, “Did you write that?”

“Yes. It’s my fan, I do what I want with it. Problem?”

“Your poem’s bad.”

“You think you can do better?”

Ao Lie shut his eyes, fell in step, and said, “In noon breeze, sunset blossoms, but I weep, for the love of dawn still calls my name.”

The pig scoffed. “How’s that better? It’s outdated adolescent material. Listen and learn- sadness calls like a crow at night, but in bed, I feign sleep in my plight.”

Ao Lie: “The old man sings an offbeat tune, for he so fears, losing to the glory of youth.”

Bajie: “Young soldiers should learn, by and by, from their elders before, lest they be killed as they charge to battle.”

“Such sadness in Tianpeng’s heart,” the dragon said, “his life’s art bare, and undone before Ao Run’s heir.”

“Yulong need be quiet,” was the retort, “or incur Wuneng’s wrath and the ire of earth.”

Ao Lie: “Even a wounded beast can best the smallest man, when his pride is raised so high.”

Bajie: “A dragon may fly, but a boar can charge, and like the cat and mouse, only one can reach the sky.”

Ao Lie: “As the ancients say, there can only be one victor, so the dragon will burn pork.”

Bajie: “Such mighty words, from the-”

Wujing: “Speak Chinese, assholes.”

The pair stopped in their tracks, equally startled by Friar Sand’s blue height, the fish blocking the sun in front. He held a frying pan to his shoulder, swung behind not unlike the way Wukong carried his staff.

“What is wrong with you today?” Bajie snapped, “can’t you see Bailong and I have a rhythm going on? We were making art and you ruin it.”

The fish snorted and said, “Since when were you and the brat so chummy?”

Ao Lie sense some tension he was not privy to, but had no interest in delving further. He was much more upset with the sight of Wujing’s face, and chest puffed, he stepped up to the third disciple.

Ao Lie: “You ate my arm!”

Wujing jabbed the pan his way, its tip poking into the dragon’s head, and growled, “I saved your fucking life, brat! You lost your own arm!”

Bajie: “Well, we can’t prove that, can we?”

The pig promptly shut up when Wujing threw the frying pan straight into his face. He fell with an- agh!- as the third disciple yelled, “Shut up!”

“You ruined my heroic death, third brother,” Ao Lie continued, “and you don’t even have the decency to check on me! You just left me in that bed by myself!”

Wujing: “You ungrateful piece of shit! Who said I owed you anything!? Who do you think you are!?”

“I’ll tell you who I think I am,” the fourth disciple said, “I’m your brother, like it or not!”

Wujing opened his mouth, then left his jaw hanging, no retort at hand. Of all the things he’d expected to hear from the haughty dragon, an open admission of kinship was the last on the list. And like a duck without wings, he could only blink and look into those blue eyes, nothing to say save, “Yeah, you are.”

Behind Ao Lie, Bajie picked himself up and shook his dented face back into shape.

“And brothers stay together!” the pig added.

Wujing smacked him down again. “Shut up.”

And Ao Lie couldn’t help but snort, relieved that some semblance of their odd lot had returned to normal. As Bajie picked himself up, a new figure appeared at the head of their path, having crossed a statuette of the Bodhisattva’s head. Zhenyuanzi approached, sleeves locked in front, and at his heels, Mingyue followed, hands lifting his Master’s robe over the stream behind.  

“Pilgrims!” the patriarch said, “I see you’re all up and about. In much better spirits, I hope?”

Ao Lie: “My arm’s gone, but I’m alive.”

Zhenyuanzi: “Wonderful!”

And ever blunt, Wujing asked, “Where’s Master?”

Bajie: “Yes, patriarch, if you don’t mind our humble queries. Where is our Master? I’ve wandered this temple all day without a sign of him.”

Zhenyuan the immortal pressed a thumb to his chin, and stroking a beard of air, said, “Qinfeng has been tending Master Sanzang. He’s up and about. I was on my way to invite him to supper, actually- care to join?”

As long as Friar Sand’s not cooking, Ao Lie thought. He nodded along as Bajie dropped to kowtow at Zhenyuanzi’s feet with a cry of, “Yes! Our hearts burn to see Master well!”

“Why are they like this?” Mingyue asked the patriarch, with more than a few sideway glances at Bajie’s bowing form.

“If you have something to say, say it to my face!” Wujing said.

Zhenyuanzi: “Then let’s head in before sunset. I’m sure Master Sanzang would appreciate our presence.”

As his heels turned, a voice, decidedly feminine and belonging to the Nine-Headed Golden Vulture, cried, “Well, I don’t! Go to your own fucking house for dinner, geezer!”

The patriarch looked to the source of the noise- Jiu Gong perched atop a tree- soured, and said, “I surely can’t leave Master Sanzang alone with you! Mind your trap, vulture!”

“Then maybe I should just go to Wuzhuang temple and move in there, huh!?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Watch me!”

“You-!”

And back-and-forth, the pair bickered, hurling insults up and down as the pilgrims watched the sun turn red. Ao Lie was about to leave when Mingyue dropped his Master’s robe and said, “You lot, come on, I’ll show you where that stupid monk is.”

Xuanzang tucked the rest of Wukong’s dressings in, each wound cleaned in stream and paved with salve. Until twilight, at least, he was sure that those bandages would stay white. As Wukong slept, the monk smoothed his pillow, and tender, lifted the covers up to the monkey’s chin. Night had come and the chirp of crickets told Xuanzang it was time to shut the wall ahead. He reached under the blanket and gave Wukong’s hand one more squeeze before he left the bed for the walls upturned.

Xuanzang folded the panes back in, until moonlight was blocked and replaced with a candle’s flame. And in the dark, the embers of Guanyin’s incense sparked, the willow burning on, and with it, the rise of Wukong’s chest. Yawning, he returned to his bench and sat slouched, chin pressing cassock and eyes half-closed.

And- knock!- the door opened to their room.

The Tang priest started, awakened by Qingfeng’s arrival and the presence of his disciples behind, each face shadowed with delight and worry in turn.

“Venerable elder,” the servant said, “your students have come to see you.”

“I’m so pleased you’re awake, Master!” Bajie cried, “your good health is all I want in this world!”

Xuanzang: “I’m not in the mood for lies, Wuneng, but I’m glad you’re well.”

Without acknowledging the monk with a single look, Wujing crossed the floor and loomed over where the monkey lay, his hulking form dwarfing that room and all its guests. His gaze stuck to Wukong, no sign of a blink in those glassy eyes.

“Eldest brother’s weak,” the fish said, as if he’d somehow expected the first disciple’s state to be anything better.

“Let him rest, Wujing,” Xuanzang said, “it’s going to take… time for him to regain his strength.”

Wujing did not move, lost in silence as he observed the monkey’s fluttering chest, lungs still fighting under a cage of broken bones. Then Ao Lie approached the bed, somber as he first looked to Wukong, then Xuanzang.

“Master,” the dragon whispered, “will big brother be alright?”

Xuanzang put a hand on Ao Lie’s sleeve, tender as he grasped the stump underneath. He met Ao Lie’s gaze, the priest’s eyes shining with warmth and something more.

“Let Master take care of eldest brother,” Xuanzang said softly, “now Xiao Bailong, tell me how you’re holding up. I’m sorry I let you down.”

Ao Lie felt a breath let loose. And he smiled, again a child in a father’s hold. “I’ll manage, Master. And you never disappointed Ao Lie in the least. When big brother recovers, I’ll carry you to India just as he wanted.”

It was what the dragon prince wanted, and that in itself was enough to make Xuanzang’s heart swell with a dose of pride. He remembered on another day, now so far from this night, when Ao Lie had meant to take off with him to the western sea, some underhanded little ploy to feed him to the dragon king. He remembered Ao Lie’s scowling face and every spark of fakeness in his eyes, as if every step west sickened the dragon to his core. And the eyes that looked at him now held nothing but a student’s adoration and the promise of a promise new.

For once, the prince looked every bit as noble as his blood claimed and despite the bodily harm, Xuanzang was sure his soul was well, finer than it had ever been.

He was about to say so when the dragon said, “But if anyone judges you for using a three-legged horse, that’s not my problem, Master.”

And there was the Ao Lie Xuanzang had come to know. Sighing through a smile, the monk told him, “We’ll figure it out, Xiao Bailong.”

From the door, Mingyue’s voice cried, “Dinner’s ready! Come with me or starve!”

The disciples looked to Xuanzang for direction, but he shifted his gaze to Qingfeng instead. “Can you bring my meal here? I don’t want to leave Wukong alone.”

Qinfeng: “Of course. Do you need anything else, Master Sanzang?”

The monk thought for a moment, then said, “My scriptures. I’d like to meditate in here.”

Mingyue: “There’s a prayer room, you know? It used to be the vulture’s orgy hall, but whatever- you can use it.”

Ao Lie felt his brows hike up as Bajie gaped and said, “A what hall?”

Xuanzang shook his head. “I’d rather stay here… for now. Please, take my disciples to their meal. I’m sure they’ve had enough of me for one night.”

“As you wish,” Qingfeng said. Then, in unison, he and and Mingyue dropped and kowtowed. When they stood, Mingyue stepped out, just as Qingfeng gestured for the disciples to follow him off.

Wujing tore his eyes from Wukong, and sullen, left first, Bajie stalking after his somber shadow. At the doorway, the pig glanced at Xuanzang one last time and as if trying to convince himself, said, “Master, eldest brother’s going to be fine. He’s the Great Sage Equaling Heaven.”

Then he was gone, and only Qingfeng remained, waiting for Ao Lie to follow suit.

Ao Lie: “I’ll stay with Master a while longer.”

Qinfeng: “Of course, your highness.”

The door shut. And Ao Lie was left with nothing save the glow of candlelight and the glimmer of incense by the first disciple’s bed. Xuanzang left his bench, sleeves flapping as he fanned the embers until they rose in quick flickers. And as soon as the sparks rose, they just as easily bled to smoke, only growing dimmer as the night drew on.

Ao Lie rested on his knees, and eye-level with the monkey’s shape, he could make out the contours of Sun Wukong behind those layers of bandage white. He’d never seen Wukong in such a state, but Ao Lie was sure he had been here before, in some other room in a quiet candlelit night. And the monkey had filled this bed, his paws stiff, and Ao Lie’s hand had clutched his. He recalled his dream, of girls-turned-flames, and dizzy, the dragon shut his eyes, quite sure he was simply too tired to think straight.

As Ao Lie grappled with that image, the faces of those children slipping through his mind like sand through cracks, Xuanzang crossed to the monkey’s bed. The Tang priest unwound the bandage around his wrist, and reaching into the dresser’s shelf, pulled out the needle Qinfeng had left. He pricked it against tender skin, and when the blood gathered, held that hand above Wukong’s mouth. Startled by the drip-drip of mortal blood, Ao Lie sat straight and cried, “Master!”

But Xuanzang paid him no mind, intent on forcing beads of red down the monkey’s throat.

Ao Lie: “Master, stop-!”

Xuanzang: “It’s fine, Xiao Bailong. The Bodhisattva told me to do this. I haven’t gone mad.”

He dabbed the needle clean and left it out for the servant to take. And then, flinching, he pressed the bandage back to that pinprick and wrapped it tight. Ao Lie made a noise that sounded like, “oh,” as if only half-convinced.

Xuanzang took his place on the bench, body shifted so he could see Wukong an inch or so closer. The monk pursed his lips and hummed, the lyrics of a nursery rhyme playing over in his head: my child, my child, why are you so naughty? Bullying, cheating, how can you do such things? Learn compassion.*

He half expected Wukong to start wriggling in sync, and the spew of curses to follow as the monkey danced. But the first disciple stayed put, no change to the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

“Good child,” he sang under his breath, “come back soon.”

Ao Lie heard the tune bend, notes off as the priest’s voice broke: “My arms have always been open to embrace you.”

The dragon waited for when- not if - Wukong would wake, but the monkey failed to stir. Sensing a quiet glisten in the Master’s eyes, Ao Lie placed a hand against the crook of Xuanzang’s arm, and leaning into his touch, the priest hummed on.

And the wick of the candle burnt.

Chapter Text

Xuanzang awoke to the sight of a smiling Qingfeng, sunlight filtering in from the window behind. Groggy, the monk sat up, pushing the blanket from his red robe. Wait. Xuanzang stared down, his legs covered with a red skirt, itself embroidered with blue seams, peonies and lions that crossed.

“Good morning, Master Sanzang,” the servant said, the sun sweltering hot. “Are you prepared for this fine dawn?”

He grinned some more, and then it clicked in the Tang priest’s mind: Qingfeng never smiled. Unsure what was happening, Xuanzang stepped down, his feet slipping into fine cloth shoes. The monk ran a hand through his hair- hair!?

“Qingfeng, I need a mirror!” he cried, voice busting by a pitch or two.

When he turned, the boy was already there, propping forward a mirror twice his height,  that grin so bright Xuanzang flinched. And in the glass, Xuanzang’s jaw fell. His hair grew in thick ruffles, as black and unkempt as it had always been, and below, his collar hiked white, held in place by a robe of silk red. Atop that robe, a crimson sash fell from left shoulder to right hip, thick as a belt, and bound with a blossom knot.

“Qinfeng, there’s been a mistake,” he said in disbelief, tapping the mirror for good measure, “I’m in a bridegroom’s clothes.”

Qinfeng climbed up that mirror, balanced himself, and placed a red hat upon the priest’s head, two black flaps sticking left and right like slanted wings.

Qingfeng: “There’s no mistake! You’re to be married this day to Lady Duan!”

“But she’s dead!”

“That’s never stopped you!”

Then servant hopped down and when Xuanzang stretched to grab his sleeve, ducked, and bounced to the door. Qingfeng turned to bow once before pushing it open, and- pop!- firecrackers sparked on the street outside. His jaw still hanging, Xuanzang marched to the doorway and stared on, all of Chang’an rallying at his feet, a mass of faces he’d never seen as they laughed and shouted words of blessing and cheer.

“There’s been a mistake,” he repeated as he stepped out, pelted with blossom petals and dried rice, those voices chanting, “Congratulations, Elder Tang! Congratulations, Elder Tang!”

The string of lanterns in the air caught his eye, but Xuanzang was soon pulled away by familiar arms. Bajie and Wujing lead him through the crowd, arm in arm, their grins plastered and their robes bright red.

“About time, Master!” the fish said.

“How blessed this day is!” the pig confirmed, “I wish you a lifetime of happiness and children ahead! Do make babies to your heart’s content!”

Xuanzang: “There’s been a mistake!”

But he was drowned out by the explosion of firecrackers at their feet, and to avoid the burn, ran out of his disciples’ grips. And- Pop! Pop! Pop!- the fire crackled after, until Xuanzang was forced to the end of that street, where Ao Lie rose from a stiff kowtow, his white robes now red and his hair swept down.

Ao Lie: “Master, in here!”

The dragon spun and pulled apart the curtains to the palanquin behind, a litter of wood on poles red. Xuanzang crawled inside, and as the curtains shut, felt the litter rise on shoulders and the bright song of men. It bobbed up, then down, and took off, Xuanzang’s hat dropping with. Across, a woman sat, silent in her silk dress, adorned with ribbons and threads of gold, her face obscured with a veil of satin red.

“Bodhisattva,” he told her, “I’m so sorry, there’s been a terrible mistake. I can’t make wedding vows- you see, I’m a holy man-”

“Shut up,” she said, that voice unmistakeable, strong and firm and so loving he went weak at the knees- Duan.

“Vow to love me for ten thousand years,” she said, sweet, as if beckoning him to approach.

Xuanzang: “I-”

He scooted forward and a trembling hand lifted, parted her veil, and started when he was met with a nest of dark hair.

“What do you think you’re looking at, baldy?”

And Wukong stared from behind that view, a twig clenched between his lopsided grin, a threat of grim menace in those soot eyes. He kicked his legs up and flipped on one side, cheek propped up by one hand, red dress shifting as he plucked at Xuanzang’s sash.

Xuanzang: “What the- Wukong! What are you-”

“Come on, baldy, let’s get this marriage over with,” the monkey said, a seductive edge to his husky voice, “vow to heaven and earth.”

Wukong came closer, nose pressing nose, and closer, until his ribbons fell and Xuanzang’s sash broke. Duan’s dress slipped, and as the litter lurched, Xuanzang saw a sliver of dark shoulder, enough to make him gulp and say, “Wukong, stop-”

And then the palanquin toppled, monkey and monk tumbling in circles up and down. In a cloud of dust, Xuanzang rolled out, again blinded with sunlight and the high sparks of wanton firecracker. The crowd cheered once more, and as he crawled to his feet, caught sight of Wukong’s backside, still wrapped in the bride’s silk dress.

“Hey!” he cried, jumping over in time to grab one sleeve.

The bride turned, and Jiu Gong laughed, regarding Xuanzang as if he’d lost his mind.

“Tang-Tang, where’d you come from?” she said, “you bring a gift for me?”

“What- what gift? It’s my wedding?”

Jiu Gong threw her head back and laughed some more. “Then what are you doing at my wedding?”

Xuanzang: “Your wedding- to who!?”

On cue, the groom stepped out, Zhenyuanzi in a long trail of red, his beard down to the waist and head sporting a hat so tall it bumped into the lanterns above. He swept the vulture into his arms, and carrying her over the altar that had once been Xuanzang’s room, said, “Me, of course!”

Jiu Gong: “Fuck me, geezer!”

Zhenyuanzi: “Oh, you vile vulture.”

He grinned, whatever else he said drowned out by Chang’an’s cheers. The patriarch looked to Jiu Gong, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and looking at each other like morsels of fruit, their lips careened and smashed. And Xuanzang could only look, helpless as the street burnt up in an explosion of firecracker and stranger’s cheer, his last image that of Jiu Gong and Zhenyuan about to make sweet love.

“There’s been a mistake!” the monk gasped, back arching as he swung up.

And daylight blinded him from behind Qingfeng. Groaning, Xuanzang rubbed his eyes, joints stiff from a night of sitting and an ache in bones he didn’t even know he had. Oblivious to his plight, Qingfeng forced the rest of that wall to come undone, and Xuanzang was again face to face with the serene sight of the garden and its rippling stream. And between, Wukong lay, fettered with gauze from head to toe, and still limp as a doll that would not wake.

Qingfeng: “A mistake in what, Master Sanzang?”

Xuanzang looked into Qingfeng’s face, that countenance as bland as mildew and the lips closed into one flat line. There was no haunting grin upon the servant’s face. But he still could not shake the nuances of that dream- for it must have been a dream- and the cobwebs that gathered across his mind.

Xuanzang: “Is Zhenyuanzi married to the minister?”

Qinfeng raised a steady brow, then said, “I believe my Master would sooner eat his own head than wed the Nine-Headed Vulture.”

The monk sighed, relieved, and answered, “Amitabha.”

“Now that you are awake, please return to your quarters with me.”

“Why?” Xuanzang asked, more defensive than he’d hoped.

“I am still under orders to change your dressings until your have healed, Master Sanzang.”

Then all those aches hadn’t just been a result of his bad posture. Xuanzang released a small laugh, wondering just when he’d managed to forget all bodily injury in favor of keeping Wukong’s vigil. He no longer remembered the bandages under his cassock or the causes thereof, and it was only when Qingfeng made note, that he recalled the tiger’s ire and all the beatings he’d taken under Huang Feng.

Xuanzang: “I can’t leave Wukong.”

“It will only be a moment. Prince Ao Lie can watch the Great Sage in your stead.”

The Tang priest rubbed his sore neck, the sleep forced out of his eyes, and thought of the prince. He’d stayed by his side the night before, ever gentle as he knelt by Wukong’s bed, and it was perhaps there, sitting by Ao Lie, that the monk gave into sleep. With morning come, he did not see the dragon anywhere around.

And before he could voice this concern, the prince himself stepped in from the porch across. Again jarred by the sight of that empty sleeve, Xuanzang watched as Ao Lie juggled an armful of plums and berries red. Qingfeng moved to help him, and together they emptied the fruit into a pile on that dresser. Ao Lie stacked the fruit by incense, and wiping each plum with his robe said, “Good morning, Master. Do you want any of this?”

“Um,” the priest said, “I’m not very hungry. I didn’t know you liked berries, Xiao Bailong.”

Ao Lie placed the last plum and moved to his place by Xuanzang’s bench, knees lowered until he was again bent by the first disciple’s side. Looking at what parts of Wukong he could see, the prince said, rather apologetically, “It was all I could find. I was looking for peaches and bananas so big brother could have some when he’s up, but there weren’t any around. I’ll look farther next time.”

Xuanzang found himself taken, if only slightly, that sentiment so sweet he could not help but think back to Moonfield, when he’d watched Ao Lie follow Wukong around with glee, the monkey’s face a picture of unbridled joy. And his chest clenched when he remembered just who had taken it away.

Xuanzang: “I know your eldest brother would appreciate what you found. But he’s not used to others picking fruit for him.”

“Then he should get used to it,” Ao Lie said with a nod, “I’ll pick as much for him as I like.”

And as Xuanzang felt a laugh tickle his throat, Qingfeng advanced to the door and placed his hand on the knob. He beckoned at Xuanzang and asked, “Master Sanzang? Are you ready?”

In that moment, Xuanzang trusted his fourth disciple completely, and so, with a final look at Wukong’s shape, he said, “Xiao Bailong, take care of eldest brother. Master will be back in a moment.”

“King Yan, am I a bad person?”

Bajie did not expect an answer from the wooden face before him, but he prepared to hear words leave those stiff lips nonetheless. But the statue of Yanluo stayed silent, the lord of the dead as rigid as the souls he reigned over. He shifted on his feet, the attic floor creaking as red shadows swallowed the figures of hell, no doubt from the candle in his hand.

Bajie: “I know we’ve met before.”

He began pacing, and- creak!- the floor moved. He didn’t know who had allotted their rooms, perhaps Zhenyuanzi or Jiu Gong, or some higher power who somehow knew the pig’s heart was not at ease. He had never forgotten the luxury of Liu mansion and the simplicity of this temple was close enough, and yet he could not enjoy it, not when he knew his room lay below the hall of hell.

No one had entered the attic, not since the night of Wukong’s bloodletting, and yet Bajie could not shake the creeping feeling that someone was walking above. He’d wanted to tell Wujing, for he always told Wujing when he had such troubles, but the fish was adamant that he wanted nothing to do with Zhu Wuneng. And now he stood, face to face with a carving of King Yan, willing himself to do anything to end that creak.

“It was a long time ago,” he told the statue, “I don’t know if you remember Tianpeng, but I have never forgotten you, Lord Yan. I know back then, I was rather dastardly. You were right in punishing me, but…”*

Candle held up, he fell on his knees, and head bowed, said, “I’ve changed. Or at least, I’ve tried. I really am trying to be a good pilgrim, but I’ve made some terrible mistakes and I know no matter what I do, I can’t bring Lady Gao back or… or that monkey-”

But I’m sorry, except was he really? Or simply regretful that his plans fell through? It had all seemed so clear when he fought the vanguard-- he’d been willing to become Wuneng and go west, rake in hand as he battled all opposing. He’d wanted to rejoin, no, join for the first time, Tang Sanzang and his band. But now he doubted again.

Bajie: “I’m always doubting. Never myself though- or- perhaps, only myself. I was never good at meditating so I don’t know the answer. I suppose, I just want you, at least, to know that I wish I had-”

Had never gotten caught? Had never been kicked out of heaven? Had never been reincarnated as a pig of all things?

But Bajie was alone, and inside, he knew the real King Yan was not listening. There would be no one privy to his imparting words, and they would stay lost in the darkness that only the candle knew.

“I wish I had been born a better man.”

And he knew that night, the attic would no longer creak.

When the Master returned, Ao Lie had been sitting on the edge of that bed, eyes trained on the scenery across. The small-winged duck was floating atop the stream, inches from its family, but close enough that Ao Lie considered it a victory regardless. He was still stuck on what to name it-- Ao Run unfilial and Ya-Ya too plain. But the streak of red in its feathers reminded him of autumn leaves, and he was rather set on the duck being male. Chozi, he thought, that’s a good name .

Qingfeng: “Master Sanzang has returned. You may leave if you so wish, your highness.”

Ao Lie: “Oh.”

The dragon turned, not surprised to see that Qingfeng had moved more than the heart sutras over. It seemed that Xuanzang had requested all his belongings be moved, no doubt with the intention to stay with Wukong until the monkey woke. As Qingfeng arranged the Tang priest’s things, Xuanzang himself settled back on the bench, a glint of gold in his lap.

Duan’s band was cold to the touch, and looking upon the circlet now, it dawned on Xuanzang just how long he’d been without it. He remembered burying it in the back of their luggage and refusing to give it more thought, its sight too painful to look upon for more reasons than one. But he would not cast it away now. He knew the first disciple would not let that stand, and yet he wondered if Wukong would want it back.

No, he knew Wukong would want it back, if only because the monkey knew what it was to him. But what Wukong did not know was that Xuanzang would gladly put it away, for good if the monkey so wished. Because the first disciple deserved no keepsake, no shadow, and none of Xuanzang’s ire and blame. And now, all the priest could do was wait.

Sensing that the Master would prefer some time alone, Ao Lie stood from the bed and said, “Then I’d like some air. It does my… body some good.”

Xuanzang: “Go ahead, Xiao Bailong.”

Qingfeng bowed and escorted the dragon out. When the door closed behind, servant and prince crossed the hall, parting ways at its very end. Ao Lie assumed Qingfeng had his proper Master to tend to, and perhaps lunch to cook, for it seemed that Mingyue was the less competent of the two. Thinking of Chozi and the little duck’s strength, Ao Lie wandered to the temple hall, and out its gate, past lacquered poles and Buddha’s face. And under the windchime, he remembered the feeling of sky and breeze, pressed to his scales as he slid through cloud. In the dragon’s shape, he hardly recalled the missing arm, itself nothing to his free tail and wingless flight.

He’d flown in the morn, and he wanted nothing more than to take off again, and this time, perhaps, he would fly far enough to find those peaches pink. But he walked instead, perhaps to prove that whether on air or earth, he was still Ao Lie of the western sea. The prince hopped off the porch, and chin haughty, made his way to the crimson bridge.

The third disciple was sitting in the gazebo between, blank eyes locked on the pond beneath. And yet Ao Lie was only as high as his chest. When he reached Wujing, Ao Lie stood behind him and coughed. And again.

“Third brother,” the prince said, assured that Wujing had no intention to greet him

Wujing: “What?”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.”

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?”

“No.”

Sighing, Ao Lie placed his arm on the rails and looked down, koi fish swimming by in a blur of white and red. With the second disciple, he could at least make an argument about the arts, but with the uncouth friar, Ao Lie was honestly unsure. Without a source of quarrel, it seemed that he and the fish truly had nothing to say.

“It’s going to rain tonight,” Wujing said.

The dragon looked up, as if surveying the sky for grey. The sun was high, but the third disciple felt the incoming rain within his bones. He wondered if it would storm, but this one, he knew would be a simple cleanse. And when it happened, Wujing intended to be out and waiting for the water to sweep his skin. He’d drink it in, and all other worry, let it wash out. Instinct told him Wukong would need to live through this rain, and Bajie, Wujing did not care to care.

Ao Lie: “Are you sure?”

“You don’t believe me? Why not?”

“I- fine, whatever you say.”

The pond rippled and lilies slid, ducks bobbing through and fish swirling apart. And then, Ao Lie asked, “Do you remember what it was like, to be General Juanlian?”

“What’s it to you?” Wujing snapped back, rather sorely.

“I just want to know if it’s clear. Do you remember everything, who you’ve met, who you were?”

“What does this have to do with you, brat?”

Direct, as always . Ao Lie placed his head in his hand, and said, “I’ve been having dreams. There are these people- I- I think I know them, but I don’t. But I’ve had dreams before. Never like this though. It’s like a memory I never had.”

Wujing finally turned to him. “I’m not a therapist. Stop bothering me.”

“At least try to help out! Don’t you know how tortured I’ve been!?”

“Why are you yelling at me!?”

“Why are you yelling at me !?”

“Stop yelling!”

“Fine! I’ll just go ask second brother, since you know nothing .”

Nerve hit, the third disciple jumped to his feet and growled, “Fuck him! He doesn’t know more than me!”

Ao Lie: “Really? Then prove it!”

“I will! What do you want me to prove!?”

“Tell me why I’m having those dreams!”

“It’s a past life. Nothing more, nothing less. Second brother would tell you the same.”

Ao Lie furrowed his brow. “Are you sure?”

“Is my word not good enough for you?” Wujing said, each word more threatening than the last, as if he’d break Ao Lie’s one arm without hesitation should the dragon say “yes.”

The prince backed up and replied, “Not everything is an attack against you. I just think there must be some other possibility. I’ve been dreaming of peasants, you know.”

“Then you were a peasant.”

“Impossible! I’m Prince Yulong, third heir of the western sea!”

Wujing: “And you used to be a peasant. It’s not hard to understand.”

Ao Lie sunk to his knees, suddenly as weightless as the lily pads beneath, this single fact so unfathomable that he could only gape and blink and gape some more.

Jiu Gong lay on the porch of her tea room, or what once was a room that hosted tea. One leg swung over the other and she shifted in a pillow of her own hair, fanned out behind her head as she watched the clouds roll past. Shancai had not come by today, and Tang-Tang seemed unlikely to leave that monkey anytime soon. She still couldn’t stomach the sight of Zhenyuanzi in her home and she found herself too lazy to seek out the rest of Xuanzang’s lot. Then, the next best thing to do was lounge about and simply think of nothing and nothing more.

But her ears perked when she heard footsteps in the courtyard across, herself blocked from view by the Bodhisattva’s likeness and the shrubs around.

“Master, you always taught us the power of premonition in one’s sleep.” Was that Mingyue?

“Qingfeng, what troubles you?” the patriarch asked in his most geezerly voice.

Jiu Gong did not blame herself for guessing wrong- of course Zhenyuanzi would hire servants no one else could tell apart.

“Master Sanzang had a most disturbing dream,” Qingfeng said.

Oh, this’ll be rich . Jiu Gong felt her mouth twist into a smirk, straining to hear their discussion spin on.

Zhenyuanzi: “That is troubling. What was it about?”

She heard the movement of leaves in breeze and the quack of a duck in stream. But there was no voice for so long that she wondered if they’d gone indoors and shut the walls.

“What’s wrong? Tell us already!” the servant who was no doubt Minyue said.

Qingfeng: “In the Tang priest’s dream, Master married the Nine-Headed Immortal Golden Vulture.”

Jiu Gong felt her blood run cold, smirk lost as her mouth fell slack, no thought coherent enough to process what that servant had just said. All she could hear was a repeating- what the fuck- in her head.

“What the fuck,” Mingyue said aloud.

There was a harsh scrape of dirt, followed by Qingfeng crying, “Master, are you alright!?”

Zhenyuanzi: “I- I lost my balance for a moment. The Tang priest’s dream means nothing. He’s a mortal who’s been through too much! I, the honorable and virtuous Zhenyuan the immortal, would never even think to touch that vile vulture!”

At that string of words, Jiu Gong felt her whites roll up. “You’re not so sexy yourself,” she muttered.

“If the Jade Emperor himself ordered me to wed her, I would sooner chop off my own head!” the patriarch ranted, “I can barely stand seeing her for an hour, let alone the rest of my existence! My reputation would be as soiled as my body! I feel nothing for her except irritation!”

“You wish you had a reputation,” the vulture said, then snickered to herself.

Zhenyuanzi: “Enough- enough of this! Let us head in!”

As the trio moved about, Jiu Gong tried to picture Zhenyuanzi’s face, quite sure he was beet red at the ears. His brow had a habit of wrinkling when he was especially flustered, and if he still owned a beard, those hands would be pulling it out strand by strand. It made such an ugly image that Jiu Gong could not help but cackle. And then she thought of herself in his wedding bed, stomach swollen with his seed. Mingyue and Qingfeng would be at her side as she gave birth, and when she held the babe up, Zhenyuan’s face, beard and all, would stare back. That cackle turned into a scream, and Jiu Gong buried her face in her hands. Tang-Tang, what’s wrong with you!?

The circlet rested atop the drawer, between Ao Lie’s fruit and the incense from Guanyin. Pacing the room, Xuanzang stopped to check that stick, unsure if the smoke was emerging a beat too slow. He tried to fan it with his sleeve, but the sparks fell backwards on his arm. Coughing, he turned away and returned to Wukong’s side. 

Scooting the bench closer, Xuanzang leaned down and brought a hand to Wukong’s face, the monkey no more animated than he’d been the night before. He stroked that bandaged cheek and said, “Xiao Bailong’s excited for you to wake up. We all are, I think, even the minister. You’re not going to disappoint them, are you, bad monkey?”

Smiling, he removed that hand, and looking to the scenery across, told himself, “I’ll be very disappointed. But I hope you won’t be that difficult with me.”

In the silence, Xuanzang felt his eyes slip shut. And against the running creek, he heard an audible groan. Bolting back up, he looked to Wukong, heartbeat thunder beneath his bones. The monkey’s chest fell and rose, a second too long, and Xuanzang saw that mouth move, a bubble of noise between its lips. Eyes stretched, Xuanzang threw himself off that bench, and nose to nose with Wukong, watched, a rush of hope crackling within.

Xuanzang: “Wukong-”

And- hack!- the monkey coughed, specks of red dusting the air. The drops landed upon his lips, wet and dark against their grey. Xuanzang froze, nerves fried still as Wukong coughed on- hack! Hack! Hack!- until clumps of blood splashed those covers red. As he sputtered, Xuanzang froze and cried the monkey’s name.

But Wukong wretched, body convulsing as he choked blood, spots of pink spreading across bandages from wounds ripped. Xuanzang tore the gauze from his wrist, scratched its scabs, and scraped the skin with his teeth. Lunging, he forced it into Wukong’s mouth, and pushed to shove his own blood in.

“Drink!” he ordered as blood in pushed against blood out.

Wukong jerked against him and wretched still more, blood on pillow and blood on hand, so much now that the monkey’s chin washed red. Then it was apparent that he was not taking Xuanzang’s blood and losing too much of his own. This, Xuanzang knew, and with no choice left, yanked his wrist from Wukong’s mouth, a messy string of blood between.

“Patriarch!” he cried, lungs churning to push that scream out. “Patriarch!”

In a panic, Xuanzang wrenched Wukong from the bed, and as the monkey spasmed and shook, forced him into his tight arms. But the first disciple continue to cough, and fresh blood splattered against the monk’s cassock in drove after drove. “Stay with me, bad monkey!”

Xuanzang dashed to the door, kneed it open, and ran out with a cry: “Zhenyuan! Zhenyuan, help!”

He looked for any sign of Zhenyuanzi or his servants, skidding and bumping his way through the temple grounds. Still crying the patriarch’s name, he slammed into a shoulder coming his way. At the stairwell, Bajie grunted and stepped back, steadying the Tang priest in time to say, “Master, what-”

But Xuanzang slipped from his hold, as frenzied as he’d been when he set off for the southern sea. And only then did Bajie see the shape in the monk’s embrace, Wukong’s figure lurching and twisting as it gagged on blood, the floor stained dark from where the Master had stepped. Unaware of the red trail Wukong had left, Xuanzang ran on, no time for Bajie’s queries or the pillars in his way.

Xuanzang: “Zhenyuan! Zhenyuan, come out!”

Then, swiftly, the pig followed, gliding to the Master’s side as the patriarch finally appeared. Mingyue’s head popped out first from the kitchen doors, and before he finished asking, “Fuck! What’s your problem-”

Zhenyuanzi answered with, “Master Sanzang! What’s the matter?”

Near hysterics, the Tang priest could only pant as he shifted Wukong for the immortal to see, that monkey wheezing blood from nose and mouth. In horror, Bajie clasped a hand around Xuanzang’s shaking arm, looked to Zhenyuanzi, and pled, “Patriarch, help! My eldest brother is in deep trouble!”

Mingyue: “Fuck! Look at him. Master, what do we do!?”

The patriarch fought to keep his face from blanching, and thinking quick, looked to the back and said, “Qingfeng, get the others!”

Then, to Xuanzang, he ordered, “Give him here. Hurry!”

Bajie guided the monk’s hand forward, until Wukong was passed into the patriarch’s hold. And- whoosh!- Zhenyuan the Immortal disappeared in a blur of silver and black. The second disciple took Xuanzang’s arm in his own, and following the edge of Zhenyuanzi’s robe, swept the monk out to the temple mouth.

Xuanzang: “Wuneng, Wuneng, where is he!?”

Bajie: “Right here, Master, right here!”

The doors slammed shut, shadow and wind breezing through wood with the scent of burnt smoke and singed blood. Crimson fell upon the floor in blotch after blotch, one after the other to where Zhenyuanzi knelt- before the Buddha’s great sculpture- fingers held above his head. In his lap, Wukong lay gasping, those spasms quelled into tremors and harshed breaths.

Mingyue at their heels, Master and disciple rushed forward, slamming on knees and hands by the patriarch’s side. A breath of chi in his mouth, Zhenyuanzi popped it into those fingers sliding down, and with a grunt, pushed his hands atop the monkey’s chest. Wukong gasped, once, then again as another line of chi pricked his nerves, into the frame and its damaged veins. Zhenyuanzi brought his fingers down twice, and with a final gasp, the first disciple coughed red no more.

Only remnants of blood slipped from his mouth, dribbling until they came to a steady stop. But Zhenyuanzi kept on, and as his chi went in and down, Xuanzang felt his own legs give out. Outside, Bajie heard Ao Lie cry out, “Master, we’re out here!”

“Why’d you lock us out, asshole!?” Wujing’s voice roared.

And together, the fish and dragon pounded on that entrance, so booming that Xuanzang thought their smashes the beat of his jostled heart. When at last the doors swung open, Wujing and Ao Lie toppled in, Qingfeng and Jiu Gong pushing forward until they too fell by Zhenyuanzi’s robes. And still the patriarch did not look up.

“The spirit’s stable now,” Zhenyuanzi said, “but he did reopen his wounds with all that coughing.”

The patriarch waited for Xuanzang to respond, but all the monk did was nod. Xuanzang kept his head bowed low, eyes focused on the glow of lantern light and his own bent knees. Zhenyuanzi sat across from him, fingers twisting through a beard that was no longer there.

Zhenyuanzi: “Master Sanzang?”

But against the papered walls of that prayer room, his shadow appeared as if it still had a beard in tact. The floor stretched on, stopping at a statue of Buddha carved from stone, the face smooth as it was blank. Sitting, it was as tall as one man, not an inch more. Behind, Tathagata’s pantheon watched over its guests, each figure painted and inked on dated silk, a swirl of blacks and reds lit yellow by the light in Zhenyuan’s hands.

And in front of the Buddha, a short table lay, a cushion beneath and incense on top. Gaze following the corner of that desk, Xuanzang glanced to his left, to where a square pit was hollowed into the wooden ground. Perhaps in colder days, a fire was meant to light the room, one that need be watched most carefully lest it burnt the paper around, from hanging sutras to framing walls.

Eyes trailing back to Zhenyuanzi, Xuanzang looked up and said, “I thought- the willow and my blood were enough. I don’t understand, patriarch.”

Catching the whimper in his voice, he went on:  “I thought he had a chance.”

That feeling of hopelessness returned, twofold now that his cassock was again stained with the monkey’s dried blood. Xuanzang wondered if he was again in Moonfield, waiting in Madame Sun’s inn as Zhenyuanzi briefed him on Sun Wukong’s fate. But that was long past, and though he was loathe to say it aloud, he knew that this time, his disciple’s damage was far worse.

“He does,” the patriarch said, though Xuanzang detected the uncertainty within, “but younger brother’s severely injured. His body has no energy to repair the damage to itself nor its spirit. What I do know is that he needs to get worse before he gets better. Think of it as a mortal fever?”

“You told Qingfeng to inform my disciples. You wouldn’t have done so if you thought Wukong would live.”

An uncomfortable silence dawned, soon followed by Zhenyuanzi’s nervous sigh.

“I admit, he… frightened me. But he still lives, and in your own words, he only needs to survive past the seventh day.”

Xuanzang: “That’s still three days more. I know we can’t expect Wukong to heal easily, but I only wish he would stop hurting.”

And tears swallowed back, he added, “I think of how much pain he’s in, and patriarch, it’s unbearable to know I can’t do a thing. If not for me, he wouldn’t be like this.”

“It’s out of our hands. And blaming you would be the last thing on younger brother’s mind.”

“It would be easier if he did blame me,” Xuanzang replied, each word a pain in itself.

Perhaps his guilt would have lessened if he knew Wukong faulted him for every drop of blood spilled. But he knew how far the monkey’s devotion stretched, and he knew, that even if Wukong were to cough his own heart out, he would die without a thought of blame. For in the first disciple’s mind, the Tang priest’s life had always outweighed his own, and no matter the cost, he would make it known. But Xuanzang knew this too late, and in his lateness, he could only find guilt.

“He would never, and you know this, Master Sanzang.”

That said, the patriarch stood and sauntered to the door, white robes speckled with spots of red brown. He slid the door open and remarked, “I suppose these walls didn’t do much. Your disciples were eavesdropping anyway.”

Crouched on the porch adjacent, Ao Lie broke free from Wujing and Wuneng’s hold, the three disciples clumsily fighting to untangle limbs from a shadowed shrub.

“We were simply passing through!” Bajie said.

“Why all the whispers, Master?” Wujing asked, “what, you don’t trust us!?”

Ao Lie: “Well, since big brother’s still alive, I’m going to go see him now! So he’ll know which one of his brothers cares the most!”

The dragon dusted his lap and nearly tumbled away, eager to escape Zhenyuanzi’s judging gaze and the Master’s ill tone. Bajie scrambled after, quickly calling, “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean!?” And not a few steps more, found himself shoved into the dirt by Wujing’s hand. The fish hopped over him and cried, “Brat! Are you saying I don’t care!?”

Watching his disciples run off in clumsy strides, Xuanzang stood and shook his head, their antics not enough to cheer his spirits. He knew Wukong would be in bed, bandaged fresh, and fever-burnt; it was a sight the monk was not eager to see. He stood and thanked the patriarch before bidding him goodnight. Tired and sore, Xuanzang left the prayer room, not bothering to send the Buddha a farewell.

He stepped along the porch edge, passed the servants by the creek- Wukong’s sheets in their hands- and caught a glimpse of Jiu Gong stooping on the roof. Then he looked to his bloodied robes and to the moonless sky, unsure if he should wash those clothes. It was the logical thing to do, but a part of him felt forced to wear Wukong’s blood on, as if that too was a reminder of all he’d lost. The guilt pushed him on, and so, he wandered through the courtyard garden, and well into the lands beyond.

And without much thought, he muttered, “Tudigong, I wish you were here.”

Before Xuanzang turned back, he heard a voice, familiar and warm, and surprisingly snide, say, “Who’s askin’?”

Startled, the Tang priest glanced past his shoulder, and standing before him was the earth god lit by evening shine, exactly the same as Xuanzang since remembered. Tudigong tapped his foot, impatience in each click-click of his toe, and head cocked, said, “Well, what do you want, young man?”

The monk fell on all fours and delivered a clumsy kowtow. “Tudigong, I- I didn’t expect to see you here. I wished to see you again. I thought you’d gone back to Longevity Mountain!”

“Am I supposed to know you or something, egghead?”

“Wha?”

Xuanzang glanced up, only then seeing a glimpse of something new in the earth god’s eyes, a hint of no recognition and a sliver of pride.

“Tudigong of the Plum Woods, at your service,” the earth god said with a mock bow, “you’ve got me confused with the ol’ man from Longevity.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Eh. Us earth gods all look the same, I know. Part of the job, kid.”

Embarrassed, Xuanzang sat up, unsure what to say now that he knew this Tudi was not his friend. But perhaps it was for the better because there was no glint of pity in the earth god’s eyes, and pity had followed Xuanzang around the temple since he’d first woken up. As he sank in these thoughts, Tudigong circled him and nudged the priest with his foot.

“So can I help you?” the earth god asked, though it sounded more akin to, “don’t you dare bother me.”

“This holy one is-” Xuanzang bit his tongue before he could say ‘Tang Sanzang,’ deciding then that he did not want to mention the journey west at all- “most troubled. My eldest disciple was critically injured on my behalf and I’m not sure if he’ll make it through. And you see, Tudigong, I-”

Then he realized he had never said it aloud, not to Tathagata or Guanyin, and certainly not to his companions in the temple behind. But everything had come to a point, and Xuanzang refused to waste time hiding it any longer. It was the truth- one he’d learned a step too late- and he would never let it lie again.

Xuanzang: “I love him.”

Tudigong looked him in the eye, as if balancing the monk’s words in his mind, and scratching his nose, said, “So you’re feeling guilty for your favorite disciple’s condition. Alright. Sounds normal. Just let him know you appreciate what he did- he’ll die happy and everyone’s good. I’ve got to go now-”

Xuanzang wished he was talking with the earth god of Longevity Mountain, but he had started and he would not stop, so he shook his head, and said again, “Tudigong, I love him.”

And perhaps it was the way he said ‘love,’ because then, the earth god met his gaze again, pupils wide as realization at last dawned. “Ah,” he said, then “ah” again.

“So you cut your sleeve*,” Tudigong told him in surprise, “you monks are supposed to be celibate, you know.”

“I know, Tudi-”

“I’m not done, kid.”

The earth god crouched, until he was eye level with the Tang priest, and said, “That’s what I’d say if I was one of your buddhas, but I’m not. If you really love him, then you better fight everyone and everything that says no. Got it?”

Unconsciously, Xuanzang felt his fists clench, breath held as the god’s words sank in like roots in earth and replaced whatever weight had held him down. And suddenly, he knew- this had had been exactly what he’d wanted to hear because in the end, he had made up his mind to fight long ago. His Wukong would not die then and he would not die now-- Xuanzang would see this through.

“I understand,” the monk said in a paused breath.

Tudigong grinned and released his grip. Then, turning on his heels, said, “Perfect. Now leave me alone, egghead. I’m on the lookout for a suspicious character- do you think you’ve seen-”

“I’m excellent at fighting, but I don’t say so because I’m low-key!”

And battle declared, Xuanzang gathered his limbs, kowtowed once more, and rushed back to the temple from where he’d come. Watching him leave, the earth god could only scratch his head and say, “Alright then.”

The three disciples hovered over their eldest brother, as if expecting him to wake any moment, and to their collective disappointment, no such moment came. Wujing looked to Bajie, animosity forgotten by the panic from hours before, and said, “Now what?”

“Don’t look at me,” the pig replied, worry evident on his masked face, “he still has three days, remember? Pay attention.”

Ao Lie tucked the blankets up to Wukong’s chin and muttered, “Big brother will be alright.”

The dragon frowned, his chest not yet recovered from how hard that heart had pounded hours before. Ao Lie had not expected the monkey to do anything but recover, and now, he found himself very much doubting if that was the case. If the first disciple got worse, not better, Ao Lie did not know what any of them would do. Life without Sun Wukong-- the prince knew he would not be able to fathom such a possibility.

Rubbing back tears, he glanced at Wujing, the fish again looming over Wukong with those unblinking eyes. Unnerving, perhaps, but Ao Lie was somewhat sure that it was the third disciple’s way of showing his concern, as if he could heal the monkey simply by staring him down.

“Yes, that’s right,” Bajie said, “brat’s right for once. Boss won’t die just like that.”

He still has to wake up and beat me to death, he thought, I won’t hold it against him . That little knot of guilt twisted again in the pig’s stomach, and looking at the monkey’s still form, that chest fluttering weakly as he breathed, he knew that he did not want Wukong to die. When all was said and done, and every doubt put aside, he did not want his eldest brother to die, not before he could make amends, and certainly not before they arrived west.

“Master won’t be able to handle it if you leave us, big brother,” the dragon warned softly.

Wujing snorted. “Who cares about baldy.”

Bajie: “Exactly- what about us, monkey? Who will so lovingly kick my ass?”

“If he dies, we’ll kill him,” the fish said matter-of-factly.

And for once, the three disciples agreed.

They say that Tang Sanzang did not leave his eldest disciple’s side for three and five days. He sat by Sun Wukong’s bed from sunup to sundown, sutras splayed open across his lap and a drum in his hand to mark each hour that passed. He never once left the room, and finished his meals- three square, rice and cabbage- as soon as they were brought in. Thrice a day, he would stand and fan the incense of willow and ash. Once, he would unwind the bandage around his wrist, prick the skin, and let a drop of divine blood slide into the monkey’s mouth.

When the walls lay open, the Tang priest sat unmoving as wind and sun moved outside, the scent of grass and creek breezing past. And as the ducks bobbed along, fish came and went, no ripple or chirp enough to move him from his place. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was a prayer to the Bodhisattva Guanyin, and a plead, in her infinite mercy, for his disciple’s life.

His companions entered and left the room without his notice, and once, when Zhu Wuneng said, “Master, come have some fresh air! I will watch eldest brother for you,” the Tang priest calmly rebuffed him, back still turned- “Bajie, there are nine wounds on your eldest brother’s back. Would they happen to come from your rake?”

“Carry on, Master! I won’t disturb you again, ha ha ha!” Wuneng had said, and in a crumple of nervous laughs, scrambled through the door opened.

When Pring Yulong asked if he could watch the splendid sage in Sanzang’s stead, the Tang priest replied with a curt “no.”

He paid Zhenyuan’s servants no mind as they went in and out, and even the Nine-Headed Vulture’s teasing did nothing to spark his mind from where it set. True to his word, the Tang priest stayed close to his disciple and dared not look away for more than a moment’s time. He remained sitting when the sun beamed high and dust filtered light through, silent when the breeze carried water and birdsong in.

And when the sky at last boomed, thunder and water showering through the night, Tang Sanzang still kept his vigil firm. He shivered as the wind and rain together blew* and did nothing as the candlewick gave way to smoke. As if drunken, his spirit did not sway, and when the embers of incense glided past, they landed on his folded hands and turned to warm ash.

And on the morn of the seventh and fifth day, Zhenyuan the Immortal entered and said, “Master Sanzang, we have a visitor.”

Then, finally, Xuanzang turned to see his guests. Behind the patriarch, a man stood in mudded white robes, his fair beard tangled and hair pulled back. He approached, and that square jaw moving, stated, “You must be Tang Sanzang.”

Xuanzang: “I am. And you are, venerable sir?”

Something hitched in the newcomer’s throat, and wrinkles parting, the man said, “I am Puti the Immortal.”

Chapter Text

From that tongue, the name Puti had dropped like fresh fallen snow, and as Xuanzang rose to meet the patriarch and his guest, Ao Lie’s words- from what now felt like so long ago- rolled through his memory past. He looked upon the man in front and his dirt-stained robes, as if this Puti had left his garments unwashed for days. Next to Zhenyuanzi’s pristine form, especially, Puti appeared a man unkempt, that top knot loose and heavy gaze speaking of one who’d seen better days.

And just as it dawned on Xuanzang who this man was, the immortal said, “You may not know me. I’m Sun Wukong’s teacher. I’ve taught Prince Yulong as well.”

Xuanzang saw his lips move and heard each word, and still he felt that this was not quite true, as if he had closed himself off for so long that he was again lost in a fevered dream.

Zhenyuanzi: “Master Sanzang?”

But this was very much real, and unsure of what more to say, Xuanzang said, “I know who you are, Patriarch Puti.”

And when the phrase left his mouth, Xuanzang was struck by just what he knew. Ao Lie had told him of his first Master’s dilemma and their haphazard reunion with Wukong. Of Puti, Xuanzang only knew his name and the claim he had to Sun Wukong. And suddenly, that claim felt too much, for Xuanzang now realized he was in the presence of a man who knew Wukong better than he. Under Puti’s gaze, the Tang priest was young Jiang Liu once more, little more than a babe and no match for whatever his elders had to say.

Faced with such new stress, Xuanzang could not help but scream within- amitabha!

Hoping that Puti the Immortal could not see the panic fly across his face, Xuanzang suppressed a gulp and watched as the new patriarch nodded and said, cold, “I’m glad. Then let me see my disciple- where’s the damned monkey?”

Bad monkey, I see this is who you got your manners from. Xuanzang did not miss the emphasis on “my”- not yours, not ours- and he did not care for what Puti had implied. Still, he kept silent and replied, “Right here. But please do not be too alarmed...”

He stepped aside, so that Wukong was now in view, shrunken shape tucked under covers and bandaged from top down, those wounds freshly dressed and his mangled chest lost in the same weak flutter.

Puti: “Damn it.”

And before Zhenyuanzi could cut in, Puti came forward, shoving Xuanzang aside in his rush to the monkey’s side. On his knees, Puti regarded Wukong with what could only be shock and grief, his face blanching to a shade lighter than white hair. He touched Wukong’s ashen face, leaving crumbs of dirt on the pillow under, and it took the monk every bit of restraint not to stop him then and there.

“How did this happen?” Puti demanded, voice rising ever slightly, “how long’s he been like this?”

Zhenyuanzi: “Puti, it’s quite complicated. Perhaps I should tell you over a hot cup of tea-”

Xuanzang: “He came back for me. That’s what happened.”

Puti’s eyes again fell on Xuanzang, and the look within told the monk that the immortal was no celestial, for that hot gaze was brimmed with anger all too human and the fire of a man who wished to kill.

But his next words were directed at Wukong instead. Puti looked back to the first disciple and said, low, “Asshole! I told you not to- you’re an idiot, you absolute idiot…”

Shoulders shaking, the immortal bowed his head, until those eyes fell into shadow and he was near bent over the monkey’s bandaged head. Xuanzang glimpsed a tear or two roll down, and guard dropped, approached to say, “Patriarch Puti-”

He never finished. Puti shot up, rounding on Xuanzang in time to cuff the monk’s cassock in his hands, and- slam!- pushed him up against the nearest wall, backside first. The air pressed out and too shocked to feel the aches welling up, Xuanzang could only stare up ahead as Zhenyuanzi yanked Puti back (“Stop!”) and threw him across the floor.

The pot of incense rattled when Puti landed on the porch outside, a trail of mud in his wake. Xuanzang slid to his bottom, senses returned as he gasped for breath, quite sure he could expect a day of torment ahead. He looked to where Wukong lay, blissfully unaware of what his first Master had just done-- but all that mattered to Xuanzang was that the monkey lived, and the seventh day having since passed, he knew he would. If that meant a few more beatings at Puti’s hands, then he would gladly take each blow.

“Master Sanzang!” Zhenyuanzi said, pulling the monk up by an elbow each, “are you alright?”

Then, crying out to Puti, now scrambling to sit up, the patriarch said, “What were you thinking!? Attacking the Great Sage’s Master!? Have you lost your mind?! You really want him to wake up to this!?”