"Great Sage. Where do you intend to go?"
"To stomp on the Southern Heaven. To smash the fucking Celestial Palace to dust."
"If you should go—and never return…"
"Then I go, and never return."
The years have grown old. The mortal world is worn thin. Mountains shift; rivers change their beds.
Born a monkey, what can you do? By nature, he kneels to no Heaven above, no Earth below. Who would have thought that one careless instant later, he would fall beneath a single move of the Buddha Tathagata of the Western Heaven—"Boundless Dharma, Great Merciful, Great Compassionate Hand."
Crushed beneath Five-Finger Mountain.
Five hundred years.
Five hundred whole years, feeding on wind and sipping dew. Scorched by day, frozen by night. By day, no sleep; by night, no rest. He did not exactly drink the essence of sun and moon, nor draw in the spirits of all things below. Only by virtue of an undying body did he distill the earth's breaths—the clear, the turbid, the murky, the vital, the essential—the five elemental qi and forge a pair of Fiery Eyes, Golden Gaze.
The one who five hundred years ago stood equal to Heaven itself, outside the Six Realms and beyond the Five Elements, the Great Sage, Equal of Heaven; Sun Wukong… now left with a ruined name, a trampled fame, one defeat that would not heal. Sitting there letting the years grind him down, living on mountain ginseng, wild berries, and dried fruits brought by a cowherd who came to help him scrape by.
Day after day. Year after year. The cowherd grew up; in a scant few decades, he grew old. Wrinkles climbed his face, his legs turned weak, until he was nothing but a withered stick of an elder, one breath away from the end. With that last breath, he commanded his line: for generations, bring water and pick fruit for Sun Wukong trapped beneath Five-Finger Mountain.
Ever since the Great Sage Sun Wukong was nailed down there, Chaos—the Demon King—came from the Boundless Sea. Every so often, he would wander to the foot of the Five-Element Mountain to mock him, to sneer with a smile, to stab with words bent like hooks.
At first, Sun Wukong even listened with some relish. Chaos would first curse the Jade Emperor of the Celestial Court above, dim and useless, then damn the Ten Kings of the Underworld below, reek and miasma! Wukong beat his chest and stamped his feet and shouted, so damned satisfying.
But the old, undying bastard grew more and more spirited. Having finished cursing Heaven and spitting on Earth, he got familiar with Wukong. And yet Wukong had never once seen Chaos's real face and never knew what it actually looked like.
He seemed proper enough in human shape, but forever shifting, now summoning wind and rain, now smoke and dream. His voice was so gentle it seemed to pour water, like a shy girl in flower, a beauty who shames moon and blooms alike.
Chaos was a demon king of a hundred forms, hard to grasp. His figure was as lithe as any immortal in the Moon Palace; Chang'e herself might be matched there, and that voice, deep and mellow, rivaled heaven's music.
Every time Wukong saw Chaos, the demon came draped in a long robe, half hiding a face with a palm-leaf fan, "the pipa held close to half hide the face," alluring and coy. The robe might be gaudy, yes, but it dazzled, the radiant in spite of itself.
And in five hundred years, Wukong never saw Chaos wear the same garment twice. Lissome body or not, Chaos never bared a single inch of skin beneath the sun.
Hidden deep yet flaunting the curve, Chaos set a perfect paradox before the eye.
Only Chaos himself knew the truth: we are demons. We fear sunlight. He lived long in the Boundless Sea, never seeing the sun through all seasons. In that dank, dim, bone-cold place, he was demon king to the Six Realms—without a day when he did not thirst to see daylight again, to walk openly beneath the sun. A thousand years of cultivation, and still a step short.
He was in no rush. When Sun Wukong's five-hundred-year seal expired, he would seize that moment to overturn Heaven and Earth, break open primordial Chaos, and step into the sun again…
Though he needled Wukong publicly and privately, with sideways curses and thorned words, how would that monkey with his copper head, iron arms, and block of wood for a brain ever notice the depth of Chaos's contempt?
Chaos's patience thinned. Indirection failed on this thick-skulled monkey. So he dropped the mask, name, and shame while attacking the mind head-on: insulting Sun Wukong's person, trampling his dignity, grinding his pride beneath the heel.
But whether because five hundred years had sanded Wukong's will to ash, or because a mountain's prison breeds ignorance that curdles into a lazy fall, Sun Wukong, spirit sunk and will gone, remained unmoved by Chaos's jeers, whether sideways or straight to the face.
As the five-century seal neared its end, Chaos could no longer sit still or lie easy. If this monkey didn't wake up now, he would rot here forever, never to see the world again. If that happened, Chaos's plan to see daylight—to break open the primordial dark—would die with it.
On the eve before Mid-Autumn, Chaos came again from the Boundless Sea to the foot of the Five-Element Mountain. The moon was the same as ever. Only the Great Sage's old aura was gone.
"Heh-heh-heh…" Before Wukong saw him, he heard him, the signature entrance, that gentle voice with a curl of wickedness echoing down the deep ravine. The sound lingered and lingered. Chaos descended in a sweep, clinging to a robe of red; his hems streamed like peach blossoms opening at night, flying with the moon, flying with the wind.
Under the moon, tight-wrapped robes traced his lithe, sinuous form—every curve cut just so. Eyes could not help but drink.
But Wukong had seen this kind of demon glamour for five centuries; it barely stirred him. Besides, the monkey never did understand how to appreciate a woman.
Whatever Chaos truly was, right now, he was the perfect, lawless vision of a woman made to devour the eye.
"Monkey…" Chaos perched on a vine before Wukong. Fireflies flew in from every direction, gathering at the foot of Five-Finger Mountain. Streams whispered around them. Frogs sang and sang, as if the spirits of all things had joined a single celestial chorus.
Wukong ignored him. He held a stem of iron-thread grass in his mouth, its fuzzy tuft like a caterpillar napping on his lip.
Chaos rocked on the vine like a swing, peering through thick leaves at the bright disc overhead. After a while, he sighed and looked at the slumped Great Sage.
"Sun Wukong, oh Sun Wukong…" Patience gone. "Look at you—your three souls gone wandering, your seven spirits split apart. Where's the bearing of the Great Sage, Equal of Heaven?"
Wukong stayed stone to the mockery. Copper head, iron arms—five hundred years of smelting had made him numb. The imperious aura had long since fallen with sun, moon, and stars—blown away like smoke on the wind. Great Sage? Heaven-defying walker? All gone. What remained was a half-dead monkey.
No father, no mother. No kin. Heaven for a mat; earth for a quilt. Five hundred years in this mountain, slowly erased from memory. The tale of "Sun Wukong Wreaks Havoc in Heaven"—brilliant, yes—had become a household myth, a story for after dinner. No more than that.
No one knew he was still here, beneath this sacred mountain. Feeding on wind and dew. Enduring a pain mortals cannot imagine.
Freedom, dignity, honor—gone on the wind. What remained was only the endless river of time, spilling away; mountains and rivers rolling, the world shifting, people changing faces.
The Great Sage Sun Wukong, who lived in mouths and eyes, was buried deep in these untrodden hills, locked under this holy mountain, waiting for the years to pass…
Chaos kept talking and talking—words not worth honoring—meant to sting, to batter, to mock. Endless.
The moon stayed vast and pale. Water murmured. Frogs droned. Fireflies stitched green sparks through the dark. Grass-roots drank in silence. In the stream, fish and shrimp sometimes lanced up to kiss the moon, or lazed along, blowing two lazy bubbles…
Silence thickened. Only Chaos kept muttering—to complain, yes, but more to rage, to hurl abuse at Sun Wukong.
Night deepened. Nightingale fell quiet. Even the mountain stream turned abrasive to the ear. Chaos would not stop.
"Demon—enough!" At last, Wukong could not stand it. One more minute and his ears would get pregnant by accident.
"Finally,you speak," Chaos purred.
"If I don't, my ears are going to lose their chastity!" Wukong roared at him. "Can you let me have a moment of quiet?"
"The seal's term is almost up," Chaos said, cutting straight to the bone. "That Tathagata brat won't let it end there."
He said, "The Tathagata brat." So deep ran his hate for the Buddha. Gods and demons have never shared a bed, not since the first dawn. And Chaos had suffered enough humiliation over the centuries. At last, a monkey had risen who could stand against the Celestial Court, who could match the Buddha. How could Chaos waste a chance like this, born once in thousands of years?
The four godly domains of Heaven—Buddha Tathagata in the West; the Eastern Emperor Taiyi; Guanyin Bodhisattva of the Southern Sea; Yuanshi Tianzun, Human Emperor of the Northern Abyss.
Five hundred years ago, when the Great Sage Sun Wukong wrecked the Celestial Palace—the Numinous Treasure Hall (the Hall of Miraculous Mist)—Chaos had hoped Wukong would force the Jade Emperor to abdicate. But Guanyin of the Southern Sea cut in halfway. Then Chaos thought Wukong would share Heaven's lifespan and flip the court upside down. Who knew the Buddha Tathagata of the Western Heaven would step in from nowhere?
So the plan to reverse Heaven and Earth—to break open primordial Chaos—had to be delayed another five hundred years. Five whole centuries. What an agony. What a shame. This time, no matter what, he would not miss. Only by borrowing the power of the Nuwa Spirit Stone's primordial soul inside Wukong could he contend with the four celestial domains—turn the vault on its head—split Chaos open and stride out into daylight.
If not for coveting the Nuwa Spirit Stone inside Wukong, why waste spit, why scheme and cajole and wheedle him for centuries? But the term was ending. He could not and would not miss fate a second time.
This was not merely an opportunity. It was a destined hinge. Mountains move; eras turn. The gods' allotment is spent. Time for the demon realm to wash its shame.
"I've finally waited out this day." Wukong squeezed the words through his teeth. Gold kindled in his eyes. He raised his head to the sky. Through the heavy leaves, he caught one bright bite of moon, and that was enough.
It wouldn't be long now. He would be free of this mountain forever.
Five hundred years—like a white colt flashing past a gap in the wall. It sounds far. It's over now.
"I heard something…" Chaos intoned, voice tilting up and down, as if to remind him. "This time, the one coming to tighten the seal is the Tathagata's senior disciple—the Golden Cicada."
"Golden cicada, silver cicada—who gives a damn." Wukong spat out the iron-thread grass. Teeth bared, face twisted. "Even if that Tathagata brat comes in person, I'll smash him to ash."
Chaos burst out laughing. Brighter, freer than ever. The laugh rolled through the silent gorge; Five-Finger Mountain itself trembled. In a hundred lifetimes, he had never laughed so well.
"Tathagata, your death day is set." Chaos threw back his head and howled. The cry ripped the black night and flew beyond the Ninth Heaven. The sound lingered and lingered. Then he flicked his sleeve—and like a whorl of blue smoke, he thinned and thinned, and bled into the dark.
***
T/N: I'm just testing the water... It has yet to be decided if I'll pick it up or not so if ya'll want me to continue it, show your support in comments, collection & stones