"Even kings cannot escape the one question that has no answer—until they dare to seek it."
Three hundred years passed.
The Monkey King did not count them—not at first. Time on Flower-Fruit Mountain moved like the slow dance of clouds, like the patient growth of ancient trees. Seasons came and went. Young monkeys were born, grew strong, had children of their own. Old monkeys faded, their bodies returning to the earth from which all things came.
The kingdom prospered. The Water Curtain Cave housed generations. The monkeys of Flower-Fruit Mountain became legendary among the beasts of the Eastern Continent—a tribe so happy, so prosperous, so well-governed that other creatures came from hundreds of miles just to see if the stories were true.
They were true. More true than any traveler could believe.
The Monkey King ruled with wisdom and justice. He settled disputes with a word. He punished wrongdoers with a look. He rewarded virtue with a smile. His subjects loved him as they loved the sun—not because they understood him, but because his presence made their world possible.
But the stone in his belly never went away.
It had grown heavier over the centuries, though he had learned to carry it so well that even Memory—still alive, still ancient, still watching him with knowing eyes—could not always see the weight he bore. He laughed with his subjects. He played with the young ones. He led celebrations that lasted for days. And always, in the quiet moments, he felt the stone.
It whispered to him in the night. It woke him from dreams he could not remember. It sat in his chest like a cold fist, reminding him that everything he loved would someday end.
Everything.
Including him.
It was the Year of the Rabbit, on the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, that the Monkey King's world changed forever.
The day had begun like any other. The monkeys had gathered in the great hall of the Water Curtain Cave for their morning meal—fruits and nuts and sweet berries, laid out on stone tables that had been worn smooth by centuries of use. The Monkey King sat at the head of the assembly, eating and laughing, listening to the chatter of his subjects.
Nearby, four elderly monkeys sat together, sharing stories of the old days. They were the oldest in the kingdom now—surviving memories of times that even Memory could barely recall. Their fur had gone white. Their movements had grown slow. But their eyes still sparkled with life, and their voices still carried when they chose to speak.
The Monkey King watched them with affection. He had known them since he was young—since before he was king. They had taught him games, shown him the best places to find fruit, protected him when he was too small to protect himself. They were family, in the deepest sense of the word.
The meal ended. The monkeys began to disperse, each to their daily tasks. The four elderly monkeys rose slowly, leaning on one another for support, and began to make their way toward their favorite resting place—a sunny spot near the pool where the light came through the waterfall just right.
One of them did not make it.
He was the oldest of the four—so old that even Memory could not remember a time before him. His name had been lost somewhere in the centuries; everyone simply called him Grandfather. He had been a fixture of the kingdom for as long as anyone could remember, a living link to a past that existed only in stories.
He took three steps. Then he stopped. His eyes widened. His mouth opened as if to speak.
And then he fell.
The other three elderly monkeys cried out. Younger monkeys rushed to help. But when they turned him over, when they looked into his face, they saw what the Monkey King had seen once before, so long ago that he had almost forgotten.
The eyes were open. But nothing looked out of them.
Grandfather was gone.
The cave filled with cries of grief. Monkeys wailed and tore at their fur. Some threw themselves on the ground. Others ran in circles, unable to process what had happened. The three surviving elderly monkeys huddled together, weeping, their ancient faces twisted with sorrow.
The Monkey King stood frozen.
He had not felt this in centuries. Had not allowed himself to feel it. He had watched monkeys die before—dozens of them, hundreds perhaps, over the three hundred years of his reign. He had mourned each one, then moved on, because that was what kings did. That was what leaders did. They mourned, and then they continued, because the living needed them.
But this was different.
This was Grandfather. The one who had taught him to climb. The one who had shown him which berries were safe to eat. The one who had held him when he was small and frightened, who had told him stories to make him laugh, who had believed in him when no one else did.
This was family.
The Monkey King walked slowly toward the body. The other monkeys parted to let him pass, their cries quieting as they watched their king approach the fallen. He knelt beside Grandfather and looked into the empty eyes.
"Grandfather," he said quietly. "Wake up. The sun is shining. The fruit is ripe. Wake up."
But Grandfather did not wake. Would never wake again.
The Monkey King reached out and closed the old monkey's eyes. He sat there for a long moment, his hand resting on the still face, feeling the cold that had already begun to creep into the flesh.
And then, for the first time in three hundred years, the Monkey King wept.
The funeral lasted three days.
They wrapped Grandfather's body in silk leaves and laid it in a hollow tree, high among the branches where the sun could reach it and the birds could sing to it. The monkeys gathered below and sang the songs of mourning—ancient songs that had been passed down for generations, songs that spoke of loss and memory and the hope of reunion in some world beyond this one.
The Monkey King stood apart, watching. He did not sing. He could not.
On the third night, after the ceremonies were done and the monkeys had returned to the cave, he sat alone on the natural bridge and stared at the waterfall. The moonlight turned it to silver. The sound of falling water filled the cave like a lullaby.
Memory found him there, as she always did when he needed her.
"You blame yourself," she said, sitting beside him.
"No." He shook his head. "I blame—" He stopped, unable to finish.
"What?"
"I don't know what I blame." He turned to look at her, and in the moonlight she saw that his eyes were wet again. "I am king. I am supposed to protect them. I am supposed to keep them safe. And I cannot even keep them alive."
Memory was quiet for a long moment. Then she spoke, her voice soft as falling leaves.
"Do you know how old I am?"
The Monkey King looked at her, surprised. "No one knows. Not even you, I think."
"That is true." She smiled slightly. "I have lived so long that time has become meaningless. I have seen generations born and die. I have buried children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I have mourned more times than I can count."
She reached out and took his hand.
"And do you know what I have learned?"
He shook his head.
"I have learned that death is not failure. It is not something to be defeated or escaped. It is simply what comes. The flower blooms, and then it fades. The fruit ripens, and then it falls. The monkey lives, and then—" She gestured toward the waterfall. "And then it returns to the mountain from which it came."
The Monkey King pulled his hand away. "That is not enough."
"Enough for what?"
"Enough for me." He stood, pacing along the bridge. "I have ruled this kingdom for three hundred years. I have built something beautiful here. And for what? So that everyone I love can die? So that I can watch them fade, one by one, until I am alone?"
Memory watched him pace, her ancient eyes filled with something like pity.
"You will not be alone," she said quietly. "You will die too, someday."
The words hit him like a physical blow. He stopped, staring at her.
"What?"
"You are not immortal, my king. You have lived long—longer than any monkey has a right to live. But you will die. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps in another three hundred years. But someday, your eyes will go empty too, and another king will rule in your place."
The Monkey King felt the world tilt around him. He had known this, of course. In some distant part of his mind, he had always known. But hearing it spoken aloud—hearing it from Memory, who had never lied to him—made it real in a way it had never been before.
"I will die," he repeated slowly, testing the words. "I will cease to exist. Everything I am, everything I have done, everything I have loved—it will all end."
"Yes."
"And there is nothing I can do?"
Memory was silent.
The Monkey King stood on the bridge, the moonlight silver on his golden fur, and for the first time in his long life, he felt truly afraid.
That night, the Monkey King did not sleep.
He sat alone in the highest chamber of the cave, a small space he had claimed for his own long ago. It had a natural opening that looked out over the mountain, and he sat there watching the stars wheel slowly across the sky, thinking thoughts he had never allowed himself to think.
Death.
It came for everyone. The strong and the weak, the wise and the foolish, the loved and the unloved. It came for Grandfather, who had been so full of life just days ago. It would come for Memory, despite her ancient resilience. It would come for every monkey in the kingdom—every monkey he had sworn to protect.
And it would come for him.
What happened after death? The monkeys had their stories—their tales of spirit worlds and rebirth, of ancestors watching from the clouds, of a great accounting where deeds were weighed and fates decided. But the Monkey King had never believed these stories. They were comfort for the simple, explanations for those who could not bear uncertainty.
He needed more than comfort. He needed truth.
If there was a world beyond death, he wanted to see it—not after he died, but before. If there was a way to defeat death, to escape its grasp, he wanted to find it. If there were beings—gods, immortals, sages—who knew the secrets of eternal life, he wanted to learn from them.
He wanted to live. Not for three hundred years, not for a thousand, but forever. He wanted to watch the stars wheel overhead for eternity. He wanted to see his kingdom flourish for all time. He wanted to hold those he loved and know that he would never have to let them go.
Was that too much to ask?
The stars did not answer. The mountain did not speak. The waterfall continued its endless fall, indifferent to his questions.
And slowly, as the first light of dawn began to touch the horizon, the Monkey King made a decision.
He would find the answers. He would seek out the immortals, the sages, the wise ones who knew the secrets of life and death. He would travel to the ends of the earth if necessary, cross oceans and scale mountains, endure any hardship, face any danger. He would not rest until he had found what he sought.
And when he returned—if he returned—he would bring back the gift of eternal life for himself and for all those he loved.
The stone in his belly did not go away. But it changed. It became something else—not a weight, but a compass. Not a burden, but a guide.
It pointed him toward the horizon.
Toward the unknown.
Toward his destiny.
The next morning, the Monkey King gathered his court.
They came from all parts of the mountain—the elders and the young, the strong and the weak, the wise and the simple. They filled the great hall of the Water Curtain Cave, their faces curious and concerned. It was rare for the king to call such a gathering without explanation.
The Monkey King stood on the natural bridge, looking down at his subjects. He saw Memory in the front row, her ancient eyes knowing. He saw the three surviving elderly monkeys, still grieving but present. He saw young monkeys who had been born just last season, their eyes bright with curiosity about the world.
He loved them all. Every single one.
"My people," he began, and his voice carried through the cave like music. "For three hundred years, I have ruled you. For three hundred years, we have built this kingdom together. We have prospered as no monkey tribe has ever prospered. We have known peace and joy and abundance beyond measure."
The monkeys cheered. They clapped and chattered, proud of their king, proud of their kingdom.
The Monkey King waited for the cheering to subside. Then he continued.
"But there is a shadow over our joy. There is a darkness that comes for all of us, sooner or later. You know its name. You have felt its touch. You have mourned those it has taken."
The cave grew quiet. They knew what he meant. They had all felt it—the loss of parents, children, friends. The emptiness that followed the ones who went away and never came back.
"I speak of death," the Monkey King said. "Death, which took Grandfather three days ago. Death, which will take all of us someday. Death, which I have decided to fight."
Murmurs ran through the crowd. Fight death? How could anyone fight death?
"I do not know how," the Monkey King admitted. "Not yet. But I know that somewhere beyond this mountain, beyond the sea, beyond anything we have ever known, there are beings who understand these things. Immortals who have conquered death. Sages who know its secrets. I will find them. I will learn from them. And I will return with the gift of eternal life—for myself, and for all of you."
The cave erupted. Some monkeys cheered, caught up in his vision. Others cried out in fear, begging him not to go. Still others sat in stunned silence, unable to process what they had heard.
Memory rose slowly to her feet. The crowd fell silent, waiting to hear what the oldest among them would say.
"You have always been different," she said, echoing words she had spoken centuries ago. "From the day you fell from the sky and landed at our feet, we knew you were not like us. Your eyes saw things ours could not see. Your mind understood things ours could not grasp. We loved you anyway—not despite your difference, but because of it."
She walked forward until she stood directly below him.
"Go," she said. "Find what you seek. We will be here when you return—those of us who survive. And if you never return, we will remember you. We will tell your story to our children, and to their children, and to their children's children. The story of the monkey who dared to fight death itself."
The Monkey King felt tears prick his eyes. He leaped down from the bridge and knelt before her, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"I will return," he said. "I swear it. I will return, and I will bring back the gift of eternal life for all of you."
Memory placed her wrinkled hand on his head. "Then go quickly," she said softly. "Some of us do not have three hundred years to wait."
The preparations took seven days.
The Monkey King built a raft—larger and stronger than the one he had built as a young monkey, centuries ago. He bound bamboo poles with vines, wove palm leaves into a sail, gathered provisions for the journey. The other monkeys helped, bringing materials, offering advice, sharing stories of the sea that they had heard from travelers over the years.
On the seventh day, everything was ready.
The Monkey King stood at the edge of the sea, his raft bobbing in the shallows behind him. The entire kingdom had come to see him off—thousands of monkeys lining the shore, their faces a mixture of hope and fear and love.
Memory stood apart from the others, leaning on a staff carved from ancient wood. She had insisted on making the journey down the mountain, despite her age, despite the difficulty. She would see him off properly, she said. She would be there to watch him go.
The Monkey King walked to her and knelt one last time.
"I will return," he said.
"I know." She smiled, and in her ancient eyes he saw something he had never seen before—pride. Pure, uncomplicated pride. "You have always kept your promises."
He rose and turned to face his subjects. He raised his arms, and they fell silent.
"My people! My family! Wait for me! Tend our kingdom! Care for one another! And when I return—when I return with the secret of eternal life—we will celebrate together forever!"
The monkeys cheered. The sound rose like thunder, like the roar of the waterfall, like the voice of the mountain itself.
The Monkey King turned and waded into the sea. He climbed onto his raft, raised the sail, and felt the wind catch it. The raft moved forward, slowly at first, then faster, cutting through the waves toward the horizon.
Behind him, the monkeys cheered until their voices gave out. They waved until their arms ached. They watched until the raft was just a speck, and then until it was nothing at all.
Memory stood at the water's edge long after the others had gone. She watched the empty horizon, and she whispered words that only the wind could hear.
"Come back to us, stone child. Come back with your answers. Come back with your immortality. But more than that—come back."
The wind carried her words out to sea, but whether they reached the raft, she could not know.
And the raft sailed on, toward the unknown, toward the immortals, toward the answers that waited beyond the edge of the world.
For a question that cannot be left unanswered is stronger than any chain, and a heart that refuses to accept death is more powerful than any army. The Monkey King sailed east, into the rising sun, and behind him he left everything he loved—not knowing whether he would ever see it again.
But knowing, with absolute certainty, that he had to try.
[End of Chapter 3]