Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“With the presence of Heaven’s Officials and the Immortal Master of Illustrious Sagacity Erlang, who has helped capture the monstrous monkey, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, and put an end to his treacherous insurrection, we shall commence the trial.” The booming voice of the Jade Emperor fills the Hall of Divine Mists, sending servants rushing out of the hall and deities straightening their backs.

The Hall of Divine Mists is where the Great Benevolent Sage of Heaven, the Celestial Jade Emperor, holds court. Floor indistinguishable from the ceiling, resembling the cosmos, stretches infinitely in all directions. Constellations and galaxies adorn every space, celestial bodies seemingly reachable with just a raise of hand. A straight hall with jade carpet underneath indicates the center of the room, ivory pillars on both sides marking the place for deities in attendance to stand during sessions and floating lanterns high above giving light in the vast expanse of darkness.

From his throne, the Jade Emperor’s figure is illuminated by a great light from behind, reminiscent of the first moments of the universe.

“Sun Wukong.” The Jade Emperor’s eyes narrow. “Do you plead guilty for disturbing the balance among the realms, stealing and destroying properties within the possession and management of the Celestial Realm, and leading the Rebellion with the intention of overthrowing the current Emperor of the Celestial Realm?”

From the ground in front of the throne, separated by the three-step staircase, Wukong glowers. His eyes, blood red from the Trigram Furnace, burns with hatred. His legs, forced to kneel before the Jade Emperor, scrape the floor with his claws. His body, restrained and bound to the monster-subduing pillar by the diamond snare, shakes with anger. He lets out a snarl but otherwise refuses to speak.

Where are his sworn brothers? Where is Macaque? The moment Wukong got distracted and hit by the diamond snare, then bitten and dragged away by Erlang’s mutt to face the Jade Emperor alone, he was so caught off guard that the only thing he remembers is Liu'er’s distressed scream and Azure’s crestfallen expression. They haunted him the entire time he was trapped in the Trigram Furnace, burnt and scorched for the crime of being naive. His now singed fur reminds him of Macaque, and he shudders, realizing half a century has passed since their failed rebellion.

He hopes his sworn brothers are okay. Macaque surely would have teleported them out of the battlefield in time the moment he saw Wukong get captured. His warrior is quick-thinking and smart like that. Azure and the rest would protest at first once they got to safety, but Yellowtusk would be able to convince them that the chance of them winning without Wukong is nigh impossible. They would regroup, plan and wait for the right moment to bust into the Celestial Realm and rescue him. Maybe the 49 celestial days he was in the Furnace was when they still have to regain their strength and Heaven’s guards were still too strict, but now that Wukong is released, albeit for the trial and execution of his next punishment, the Brotherhood is sure to catch wind of him and come to his rescue. He can’t wait to return to Flower Fruit Mountain and reunite with them.

In truth, he is tired. The separation, the punishments, and the anxiety for his friends has chipped at his willingness to continue this war. Half a century means nothing to immortal creatures like him, but for his subjects? He has missed whole generations of his little monkeys’ lives, unable to grant them their blessings and names imbued with his protection. Liu'er must’ve been working tirelessly to protect them from neighboring demon lords. And oh, the years his best friend has had to spend away from him, who would bring him his favourite fruits when he overworked himself and refused to lay down for a minute in Wukong’s absence? Does their nest even carry Wukong’s scent anymore? The thought stings his heart and strengthens his resolve.

Macaque was right. Azure’s intention is noble but they are completely underprepared to fight this war at the point of his capture. And what would happen even if they won? Wukong would surely be appointed some title and spend even more time away from his mountain. Only when he is forced to wait and long for the simplicity of Flower Fruit Mountain that he can understand Macaque’s discontent every time he had to leave for some foolish adventure.

He’s made up his mind. Once the Brotherhood gets him out of Heaven’s reach, Wukong will denounce the whole rebellion thing. No amount of immortality can convince him to take part in this folly anymore. He will hold his moon in his arms, eat the fruits born from the ever growing trees of his mountain, and turn his back at the notion of facing Heaven’s armies for the sake of bragging rights ever again. For the first time in his long life, Sun Wukong understands the meaning of enough.

But for now, right here, in the Hall of Divine Mists, as Wukong glares at the Jade Emperor’s unfazed expression, he will not yield. He will not give these officials an inch to swarm and confirm their countless accusations. Any utterance of his can be used to devise a punishment that may pierce his impenetrable hide and wear down his psyche. Better keep them guessing, and if they want to lay all the Brotherhood’s faults on him, let them. It’s the least he can do to protect Macaque and help his sworn brothers recuperate.

The hall stretches on endlessly, its own dimension filled with judgemental stares and jeerings from thousands of deities standing on both sides, with thousands more warriors behind them, hidden in the mists, ready to subdue him were he to escape.

His skin itches, Wukong tenses his muscles, attempting to scratch this perfect jade carpet underneath him to shreds with his claws. Defiantly, he bares his teeth at the Jade Emperor.

To the Emperor’s right, Erlang Shen’s gaze bears down on him, calculating, hungry.

“Very well,” said the Emperor, “your silence shall be taken as confirmation. You shall accept the punishments according to the severity of your action, the damage caused by the Brotherhood, and any casualties from Heaven’s part during your rebellion.”

Just as he expected. Wukong grins, wondering what Heaven will take out from the vault to kill him this time. More of the Trigram Furnace? They should know better than to pull the same trick twice. Maybe something to do with water to shake up the process, Heaven’s axes and spears are useless to hurt him, after all.

The Emperor continues, “Sun Wukong, you shall be condemned to eternal confinement, bound to the element from which you emerged into existence, constrained by chains and seals forged by the Buddha. Your numerous crimes have proven you to be too dangerous to be freed or found, and thus we shall form a separate realm to serve as your prison, as fitting of your ambition to rule over Heaven.”

His eyes widen. Eternal confinement? In another realm at that? This may complicate his escape plan, however he has trust that his sworn brothers can find his prison soon enough. The real problem is Buddha’s seals. They are no joke, and even if one knows how to reverse them, it will still require an enormous amount of magical power to accomplish that task. Power that he knows, far exceeds the current level which the Brotherhood hold.

While this punishment means less pain for him and more time for his sworn brothers, Wukong is a bit put off by it. Depending on the type of prison Heaven shoves him in, the worst kind of torture might just be the dullness. Stab him with swords or burn him to crisp? Those are just things he might even do to himself for entertainment. But to deprive the Monkey King of any stimulants? It’s an act worse than inflicting pain.

Humorously, Wukong wonders if he could go insane from the boredom.

No matter, he will be free. He just has to trust Macaque’s ears to follow rumors in the wind and his sworn brothers’ resourcefulness. They might be able to find some artifacts that carry enough energy to unseal his prison while Macaque and Yellowtusk work on the intricate parts. For the meantime, he will look pretty and annoy whoever Heaven assigns as guards to his punishment. If he can trust anything, it’s the celestial realm’s paranoia. No way they won’t try to keep an eye on him.

But the Jade Emperor doesn’t stop there.

“You have led your brethren astray in your ambition to wreak havoc in Heaven, but they are not too far gone for redemption. The seals used in your binding will be sustained by qi and guarded by the lives of your former accomplices, the Demon Bull King, the Yellowtusk Elephant, the Golden Winged Peng, and the Azure Lion, all of whom have stepped up and surrendered after your capture, no longer forced to follow your hubris.”

.

.

.

.

.

what?

.

.

What is going on?! Wukong’s head starts to spin. Demon Bull King? Azure Lion? SURRENDERED? He can feel the color visibly drain from his face. His breathing picks up, too uneven, too quick. His hands automatically jerk yet he feels numb. It can’t be. It can’t be. He’s LYING.

“You’re lying! They would never do that! Let me go!” The first words spoken by him in the Hall of Divine Mists are a desperate shout. A burning sensation sparks in his chest. His face contorts in anger, lips pulled back, baring sharp teeth. He thrashes, skin digging into the diamonds embedded in the snare, cutting flesh. He looks like the savage animal they always thought him to be. “The Jade Emperor is resorting to lies and tricks to get to little ol’ me! Have you no shame?!” He barks out a disbelieving laugh, then growls, “I will kill all of you for smearing their honor!”

His crazed screeching does nothing to stop the next words from leaving the Emperor’s mouth. “Their connections to the seals have been forged and their posts decided, waiting for the chains to wrap into place. For the Six Eared Macaque, who has cowardly escaped from the battlefield and evaded his inevitable capture, a search shall be put out for him, led by the Immortal Sage Erlang Shen, to bring him to justice and accept his rightful sentence.”

Erlang Shen steps up, bowing at the mention of his name. The smirk thrown his way makes Wukong want to rip that bastard’s face out. Yet the name of his warrior, uttered in the Hall of Divine Mists, sends a chill unlike anything he has ever felt before straight through his system. Blood going cold, he freezes as if he was hit.

He vaguely hears Erlang Shen say something in response to the order, then The Jade Emperor’s command to the guards, but it just doesn’t register to him. Muted footsteps coming his way, and the ropes tying around him get loose from the pillar, dragging him away.

Liu'er is alive, he’s alive, and not captured. The thought almost soothes him, but he is struck by its implication.

They are gonna hunt him down.

The guards shout and stagger back at the bound monkey, who, with an enraged shriek, burst free from the diamond snare. Officials turn tails and run for the door, while the warriors stationed in the back rush forward, spears and swords aimed at the Monkey King. He roars, summons his staff, then with a twirl of his body the Hall of Divine Mists is shocked by a blinding light and a great tremble that fills the hall with smoke clouds. When the light dies out, an enormous hand waves away the smoke to reveal a creature with six arms and three heads, glowing a vibrant gold, swinging three giant staves. One spin of a staff takes down all the warriors in the hall and sends the rest flying out of it from the wind force.

The monstrous monkey stands tall, eyes leveling with the Jade Emperor, who has stood up when the monkey broke his chains.

“Sun Wukong, your punishment is unavoidable,” The Jade Emperor said, unperturbed. Hands clasped behind his back, his stature is unmoving.

With a mindless screech, the monstrous monkey charges.

Moments before the Monkey King touches the Emperor, the ground beneath him is lit up by the light of a great magic circle manifesting, spawned golden chains wrapping around the monkey’s limbs and holding him back. An enormous hand reaches down from the vast expanse of the universe above the Hall of Divine Mists, easily clutching the thrashing War Form of the Monkey King between five fingers.

The light of the magic circle keeps brightening, rapidly swallowing the Hall in golden luminosity. The monstrous monkey howls as he is pressed down, down, until he can no longer bear the force and has to relinquish his War Form. With a deafening boom, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven disappears into the circle, leaving behind blessed silence.

Slowly but surely, officials peek through the sides of the door and the knocked out warriors start to wake up. At the sight of the Hall of Divine Mists still intact, the Jade Emperor standing, the Buddhist Patriarch Tathāgata calmly floating above, and no trace of the monstrous ape, the deities break out in cheers and cry in acclamation:

“Praise be to virtue! Praise be to virtue!”

“Grace be to the Jade Emperor and the Buddha for vanquishing the monstrous ape!”

“Peace in Heaven! Peace in Heaven!”

Chapter Text

“Again! Again! What did you do next?” Brother Ox slams his fist on the table, the other hand holding a sloshing cup of wine, droplets staining the surface of the already crooked table. Despite his nudging, Brother Ox seems like he’s already wheezing from the untold joke.

Wukong, giggling and standing unsteadily on the table, sticks two bananas up his nose and pretends to caress a beard.

“Of course! So the Jade Emperor said ‘Which one is the bogus immortal?’ and I, and I-”, he hiccups, dropping the fruits, “and I said: ‘None other than old Monkey!’ and everyone was horrified but the Jade Emperor still sucked it up to me!”

The table roars in laughter. Yellowtusk slams his hand on the table hard enough to hear a crack, while Peng knocks their head back in amusement, throwing their feet, and subsequently their talons, on the abused wood.

The banquet is in full swing, sounds of lively banter and the warm light emitting from various lanterns on the wall forming their own bubble of heaven. Wukong has a flush to his cheeks, feeling deliriously happy.

Distantly, he can hear Macaque sigh at the repair job they definitely have to do tomorrow.

Eh, he will get to it when he gets to it. Eager to entertain his brothers, Wukong grabs the coconut wine gourd left nearby and drains it in three gulps, then lets out a burp and plops down, mimicking a passed out monkey drunk on celestial wine, which, to be honest, might be half true soon enough.

“Oh, Wukong,” Yellowtusk wipes a tear from his eye, “I can’t believe you got off unscathed from that. Any other would have their head cut off already!”

“Well, that’s just my cheeky monkey charm at work! How could they do anything to this cute face?” Wukong sits up and winks, though with how drunk he is, it’s more of a lazy blink.

“With how much you made a joke out of yourself and still lived to tell the tale, I’m surprised Heaven hasn’t appointed you as their jester! You’d give Budai* a run for his money for sure,” Peng smirks, swirling their own cup leisurely.

Wukong tilts his head. There is something in their speech that makes him uncomfortable, but before he can examine it further, Demon Bull King cuts in.

“Pah! If they did then who would be here with us now! Be grateful that the Great Sage Equal to Heaven is kind enough to host our banquets at his place!” Brother Ox laughs easily and leans back on his seat, pointing at his own goblet. “Little Brother, you must tell me where you get this wine someday.”

“Ah, but not only that, he is also the only one brave enough to lead us into our upcoming conquest!” The voice of Azure Lion, who has been quietly nursing his drink, commands the attention of the room. Heads snap to the man at the head of the table.

The former celestial warrior stands up, cape flowing behind him, a virtuous figure bestowing praise.

“Without you, brother, none of us would be here right now.” Azure raises his cup, a clear gesture of a toast. In response, the table chimes in with their own cheers.

“To the Brotherhood!”

“To Azure the new Emperor!”

Wukong preens under the appreciating gaze of Azure Lion. That’s right! He will be their main offense in the coup, and then Azure will definitely give him a title befitting of his importance! Something like Victorious Fighting Great Sage. The thought sends a thrill dancing on his skin.

Wukong can’t help but hold his cheeks in his palms, mumbling a giddy Aww, it’s no big deal. He sways side to side, bows as if receiving his title, and promptly falls off the table.

“Wukong? Hey? You alright?” Wukong senses Macaque’s boot gently nudging his leg. Macaque’s voice has always been soft, but now Wukong feels like he’s swimming after being hit in the head. It’s probably this damned ground’s doing.

Wukong rolls over on his back, arms bracing his upper body to sit up. He murmurs, “Haha yeah, that’s nothing on this-

His sentence is cut off as he whips his head to the side and pukes all over the floor. Some of it gets on his pants.

The members of the Brotherhood seem to recoil in various stages of disgust. Wukong picks up the sound of Peng gagging from their seat.

“I think it’s time that we go home. Wukong should turn in for the night and preserve his health,” Yellowtusk speaks up, his brothers nodding in agreement.

“Wait! Wait! Let us see you off! Mac help me up!” Wukong whines, still lying like a starfish on the floor. He flails like an infant begging for a hug, much to the chagrin of the dark furred monkey, who narrowly dodges the mess beside him as he lets Wukong fling an arm around his shoulder to get up.

They stagger to the open space looking out to the mountain below, where Demon Bull King’s flame teleportation spell can’t burn the furniture. The farewells are spoken in unison without looking at the recipient, since some of them are too drunk to see straight.

As Azure, Yellowtusk and Peng disappear into the magic circle that Yellowtusk has drawn up before the feast, too familiar with their outcomes, Wukong ponders whether he should also have one drawn up to teleport directly into his nest.

Demon Bull King lingers a bit. He turns to the two monkeys leaning on each other, because Wukong would never be that drunk, and pats Wukong’s bonnet as well as Macaque’s head.

“Little Brothers, I’m really glad to have you in our conquest, you know.” His eyes are soft, face relaxed in a gentle smile, a rare sight on the usually prideful king. He nods a final time then turns around and walks to the open space.

Wukong giggles, while Macaque ducks his head in bashfulness. “Right back at ‘cha, Brother Ox!” Wukong hollers as the both of them waves the Bull King off into the flames.

With none of his audience present, Wukong freely slumps onto Macaque’s shoulder. He lets out a loud yawn, ignoring Macaque’s distaste as he turns away from his warm breath. “Welp, time for bed!”

“Oh no you don’t.” Macaque promptly drops Wukong’s arm and steps aside, leaving the ginger monkey a sudden lump on the floor much to his offense.

“Hey! What the heck!” Wukong shouts indignantly. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton but he tries his best to glare at Macaque’s general direction, pouting.

From Macaque’s huff, it seems he missed him by a couple inches to the left.

Macaque steps into his vision again, leaning down, this time close enough for Wukong to see his scowl.

“You,” he points at Wukong’s face, making him cross-eyed, “just puked. The table is crooked and most likely has some cracks on it. Your clothes are dirty. And your breath,” Macaque smirks, “stinks.”

Wukong gasps. How dare he! The Handsome Monkey King does not stink! He opens his mouth to tell the other just that.

Macaque stands up straight again, and shrugs. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, your Majesty. And right now I don't see much of it.” He pretends to examine his claws, his gleeful smile barely showing. “If you don’t rid yourself of that smell, then don’t sleep in the nest tonight.”

“I’m the Monkey King! This is my mountain! I can sleep wherever I want!” Wukong retorts, though maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut, because he does not like the way Macaque is grinning like the cat that got the canary right now.

“Is that so? Then perhaps this lowly one should remove himself from the nest instead. The other side of Flower Fruit Mountain is beautiful this time of year.”

Wukong blanches. “No! I didn’t mean that! Don’t go!” He bolts upright, grasping Macaque’s pants. “I’ll take a bath right now!” He cries. It took forever to get Macaque to share a nest with him and not lounging somewhere on the mountain at night like back at the start of their friendship. If he lets Macaque get away this time, who knows if the bastard will keep doing it just to make Wukong suffer. The other monkey’s presence next to him at night is so natural that sleeping alone now sounds like torture.

“Hmph…” The dark furred monkey whistles while considering his offer. “What about the mess over there?” He flicks a finger at the banquet table.

Wukong doesn’t make the mistake of looking away from the slippery monkey. “I’ll send a clone to clean it up! And I’ll fix the table first thing in the morning!”

“Very well,” Macaque snickers, having his fill of terrorizing Wukong’s poor mental health. “I, or more specifically, my clone, will be the one to clean up that mess. Can’t have you do all the work.” He rolls his eyes, then crouches down in front of Wukong and gestures for him to hold his arms out. “Now let me get you up and to the river, you big baby. If that table isn’t fixed by tomorrow’s noon I'm hiding all your peaches.”

Wukong pouts, but sighs happily the moment his best friend goes in for a side hug. They once again resume the pose of a tipsy king leaning heavily on his grumbling friend.

Trudging steadily to the cave’s opening, Macaque stops. “How do you want to do this: shadow travelling or walking?”

Wukong hums, “If I get spit out of your shadows right now I think I'll puke again. But the river is so far from here…” He snaps his fingers, an idea forming. “You should carry me!”

“Ew,” Macaque scrunches up his nose. “I’m not letting you puke on me.”

“I won’t!”

“You will.”

“Will not!

“Will too.”

“Fine! I’ll walk then!” Wukong sulks. Macaque smugly leads the two back inside, toward the stairs they built for the infants who can’t climb into the cave through the mountainside yet.

Before they come down, Macaque uses his free hand to pull at their shadow. A clone rises up, and Macaque nods toward the mess behind them, mouthing a clear Clean it up.

Wukong giggles at the clone’s unimpressed expression. Nevertheless, it turns and starts on the task.

—

Their walk to the river clears up his mind a little. Based on the position of the stars, it’s fairly late, but the full moon’s light makes the trip easier. The wind ruffles his hair and nearly knocks his bonnet askew. Grass crunches beneath his boots, reminding him of those crisp strawberries he should pick for breakfast.

The forest hums its own melody in the night. If he concentrates hard enough, he can make out the soft chittering of sleepy monkeys on the branches.

Macaque’s long fur tickles his nose, and Wukong barely resists the urge to bury his snout in the other’s neck to take a sniff. Knowing the other, he might just leave Wukong right there to teleport straight to the river and scrub himself bald. How someone with dark fur manages to be such a clean freak never ceases to amaze him.

The two arrive at the shallow part of the river where they often bathe and wash their clothes. Wukong would opt for a shaded place during the summer days, but it’s a beautiful night and this area is cleared of tall trees, allowing cool breezes and moonlight to caress their exposed skin. Wukong quickly discards his clothes, counting himself lucky that the mess back there didn’t find its way onto his tiger skin skirt. On his left, Macaque makes a motion toward his clothes.

“Gimme those, I’ll wash them downstream.”

Wukong cocks his head to the side. “You’re not bathing with me?”

Macaque crosses his arm and scoffs, “I didn’t make a mess of myself and barely drank anything back there. Why would I need to?”

Wukong can’t stop the whine escaping his lips. “C’monnn Mac! The water is refreshing and I’ll wash the clothes while we bathe!” As Macaque is on the brink of giving in, he stacks on, “Aaand you can help me groom my fur! What if I’m too drunk to pick the dirt out and get our nest dirty?”

His warrior relents. “Alright alright, I might as well make sure you don’t stink the place up.” Despite his words, Macaque’s voice is fond as he starts to unwrap his red bandana.

“Great!” Wukong exclaims, then without delay jumps right in the river, splashing water everywhere.

“Wukong! Now my clothes are wet!” Macaque squawks. Wukong just laughs.

“Just get another shirt! I bought you like, twenty of those.” Which is true. Every time he goes on an impromptu trip and forgets to come home for weeks, Wukong tends to bring too many gifts back to appease his warrior. It doesn’t help that Macaque clearly has a preference for fine clothing. The stage costumes for the plays at his makeshift theatre alone could clothe all of Wukong’s monkey subjects.

He hears Macaque grumble behind him and the shuffle of his best friend walking toward a large rock to spread the shirt to dry. Then, the sound of him sinking into the water with a sigh.

Wukong grins, scooting backward until he is sitting flush to Macaque’s front. More grumbles follow, but the feeling of nimble claws finally combing through his fur is worth it.

“Yeah…that’s the spot,” Wukong groans and reaches back, grabbing the clothes left on the bank to start scrubbing. The water is cool and he feels more weightless than usual.

Between Macaque dutifully massaging his scalp, and the repeated, calming motion of rubbing fabrics together, Wukong slowly dozes off.

“Don’t snooze on me now, I’m not dragging your ass back home.” A voice jolts him out of his lull. He rubs at his eyes to chase the drowsiness away.

Wukong yawns, “Aye, aye. I’m up.” Standing up and cracking his back with a satisfying pop, he examines himself for any knots in his fur and finds none. It’s past midnight now, the gust of wind flowing past sends a shiver through him.

“I think I’m sufficiently clean already. Time to hit the nest?” He looks back and reaches out a hand. The sight beneath him makes him pause.

Macaque is leaning on the river bank, head propped on a palm, body half submerged in water. His dark fur gleams under the moonlight, giving him an ethereal aura. His eyes are half-lidded, a soft smile adorning his face. The two ears in place of his glamoured ones slightly droop forward, and Wukong can feel the small current forming under the water from Macaque’s tail lazily wagging. He’s the picture of peace and relaxation.

At that moment, Wukong wishes, from the deepest depth of his heart, that Macaque can always be like this.

“Okay,” Macaque hums, taking his hand. As Wukong climbs on the bank to put his clothes on a nearby rock for drying, Macaque summons a portal and reaches into it to take out two sets of light-colored hanfu.

“Wait! Let me shake off the water first!” Wukong calls, and Macaque murmurs as he turns away, shielding the fresh clothes from Wukong’s frenzied shaking.

Wukong doesn’t miss the opportunity to pluck some peppermint leaves and chew them up, then gaggle a mouthful of water to clean his teeth.

Thoroughly dried, Wukong lets the other hand over the garments. He struggles a bit to wrap the hanfu loosely around his form while Macaque dries himself with a towel.

Both clothed, Wukong grabs their blue and red bandanas, as well as his tiger skin skirt, and links their arms together.

“Alright! We can portal back now!” He chirps.

“If you say so,” Macaque chuckles, dropping both of them through a portal.

As they move through the shadows, Wukong muses on the way he feels so at home in Macaque’s magic. The shadow realm is cool and fluid, similar to a deep lake. Shadows linger around his body, reminding him of Macaque’s hugs - comforting but leaning on the side of too light, as if afraid of being rejected. Wukong holds out his arms and lets as much of them touch him as possible.

They are spat out onto their nest, Wukong meeting the soft fabrics face-first with an oof, while the other’s landing is much gentler. Moonlight pours into their nest from the small window on the wall, a compromise between Macaque’s insistence on being properly hidden during sleep, and Wukong’s love for light.

Not letting a second go to waste, Wukong immediately grabs Macaque’s middle and drags him down to lie comfortably in the nest, facing each other. Macaque huffs as he carefully arranges the blankets and pillows around them for optimal cuddling, but the warrior makes no motion to remove the ginger tail intertwining with his, so Wukong counts it as a win for him and a loss for Macaque’s tough guy persona.

He sets his skirt next to the nest and places their bandanas as well as his bonnet on it. Settling down snugly, Wukong nuzzles their noses together, and mumbles a sleepy G’night. He feels hands slowly wrapping around him back, one reaching up to stroke his hair. Soft lips touch his forehead, and Wukong can’t help but smile giddily as the show of affection.

Eyes closed, he lets himself float in the sea of unconsciousness.

A moment passes.

“Hey, are you awake?” Macaque’s whisper is a warm light shining ashore. Wukong swims toward it, and peeks his head up with a quiet hmm?

A beat. “Ah, it’s nothing.”

“Hey, hey, you know you can tell me anything.” Removing his snout from Macaque’s neck, he shuffles to properly look into the other’s eyes, sleep forgotten in the mission to convey his seriousness. “Lay it on me, bud.”

Macaque bites his lower lip, glancing away. “It’s just, are you sure about this? The coup, I mean.”

Wukong tilts his head back. “You still worry about that? Of course I am, us Brotherhood can achieve anything! I will lead the charge obviously, but I trust you and the others to have my back.” He grins, wanting desperately to wipe that uncertain look away.

“And I will, but even so, will it be enough? The Jade Emperor is the emperor for a reason. More importantly, does Azure have any contingency plans, or any specific arrangements to put in place after we win? Because if he does then I- we haven’t heard any of it.” Macaque pulls away from his arms a little, and Wukong almost follows, but he has a feeling this conversation demands focus.

Doubts emerging in the back of his mind, Wukong pushes them down. “It will work out! These things come naturally, I’m sure.” He jokes, “You didn’t see me attend any monarch training school and I’ve been doing just fine, haven’t I?”

“That’s because you have me to pick up after your blunders, dumbass.” Macaque rolls his eyes. “Can’t recall all the times I barely stopped you from disrespecting every god and demon ever existed.”

“And the Brotherhood has each other!” Wukong grabs Macaque’s shoulders and attention. “We are in this together, remember? You have a say in how this turns out too. We will shape the future the best we can.”

Macaque looks surprised, as if he hasn’t considered his status in their plan all this time, which is ridiculous. Wukong can’t imagine a universe without him by his side, ever.

His warrior’s eyes are downcast. “I just don’t want us- you to get hurt.”

“And I won’t. I have you to make sure of it, don’t I? One signal and we’re teleported out, immediately.” Wukong holds so much conviction in his gaze that it seems to rub off on the other.

Macaque stares at him as if he hung the stars in the sky. Wukong would rearrange every constellation to spell out his name if he wanted.

“Okay. Whatever you say, Wukong.” He snorts, and closes the distance between them. His smile still doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he makes an effort to relax and believe it.

Wukong enjoys this proximity until his mischievousness couldn’t be contained. He winks. “Sooo about the future huh, what would you want your new cool title to be?”

Macaque pushes at his face in a useless attempt to cover up his shit-eating grin. “You just have to ruin the moment, don’t you?”

“Aww don’t be shy!” Wukong licks the palm on his mouth, effectively prompting a disgusted shriek from the other and a hand frantically wiping at his clothes. He leans forward, making kissy noises all the way. “Macaque. Mac. Liu’er. A’Liu. Mihou. My darkened sea. My sky above. My best friend.” Each nickname is followed by a nuzzle at the other’s cheeks. “I have some suggestions already but I want your input too, bud.”

Macaque’s complexion burns a bright red, hands switching to instead cover his own face. Wukong laughs, revelling in the other’s embarrassment. He kisses the back of the palms Macaque’s hiding behind and waits for him to emerge from his shame cocoon.

After a while, golden pupils peek out between the other’s fingers. “I don’t need titles or any of those fancy things,” mumbles Macaque. He still has a faint blush but removes the palms from his face nevertheless, choosing to believe Wukong has had his fill of teasing him.

Wukong hums, “How would you celebrate our victory then? Any prizes or gifts on your mind?”

Macaque sighs, sinking lower into the plush paddings of their nest, eyes half closed. “Just- us, I guess. I want the peace and quiet you promised.”

“Then that we will have. The Six Eared Macaque, Monkey King’s warrior and bestest friend. Two heroes basking in the sun, getting fat on fruits for the rest of forever.” Wukong tucks his head under the other’s neck, inhaling the sweet scent of mangoes and rain, dreaming of light embraces and soft hands stroking his hair.

“The getting fat part may just apply to you only, bud.” He feels Macaque grin against his fur. Wukong gapes.

“Now you’re the one ruining the moment!”

“You did it first, this is just payback. Also I’d tack on ‘Wukong fixing his broken furniture instead of using his hair as chairs for months’ to my prizes, now that I remember,” snickers the dark furred monkey.

This time, it’s Macaque who initiates contact by raising a palm to cup his face and pressing their forehead together.

Wukong grumbles, but he raises his hand to cup the other’s face back, fingers caressing the underside of Macaque’s glamoured ears. The faintest trace of magic ripples at his touch, indicating the slight twitch of the colorful appendages.

“But we will do it right? Forever, together?”

A short pause, then comes the sound of shuffles and a kiss is placed on his nose.

“Yeah,” Macaque breathes. “Forever, together.”

—

The Monkey King snaps his eyes open.

Eyes darting frantically in the dark, before he adjusts and remembers where he is. Stuck halfway in a huge rock pillar with golden chains wrapping tight around it and extending into the entire “cave”. Stalagmites and stalactites protrude from the ground and ceiling, further hindering his sight and making him feel oppressed. Nary a sound can be heard except the distant dripping of water somewhere behind his back.

3,155,695,200…

3,155,695,201…

3,155,695,202…

It’s been three hundred years since the start of his imprisonment.

His neck aches, limbs cramped no matter the parts buried or jutting out. The one free hand grasping uselessly at the air in an effort to remind himself he’s still alive. Burning lines on his face marking the trails of tears over the years, his eyes too corrupted to cry anything other than blood anymore. Dust collects on the top of his head, no different than an inanimate rock being swallowed by the roots of the tree growing next to it. One day, there will be none of him left to the world.

Another dream of days long past.

Vision blurring, he starts to pant at the reminder of what he has lost. His sworn brothers, his home, his best friend. His breathing picks up, the feverish rise and fall of his lungs only serve to push at the rocks digging into his chest, sending him further into his panic attack. In the back of his mind, he recognizes this was what knocked him out last time. He forces himself to relax.

After what feels like a small eternity, he finally gets his body under control. But the grief coiling around his heart never ceases. The horrible truth he has been denying, now proved, makes it so. He drops his head.

Macaque was right.

Azure betrayed him.

The Brotherhood forsook him.

And he will be here.

Forever.

Alone.

Sun Wukong weeps, the sound lost in the endless realm of his prison.

Chapter Text

Enkidu went to Gilgamesh. "My head is bowed, O King. I am your brother and your servant; wherever you will go, I will go."

-

Dawn comes to Flower Fruit Mountain, sluggish and cold. The earth is wet, the grass heavy with dew, and the air thick with fog. The atmosphere carries a chilling dampness that seeps through the skin of creatures and weighs them down, lulling them to stay in peaceful slumber.

Macaque treads the path leading up to the entrance of Water Curtain Cave, past the sandy beaches looking out to the sea, through the once-dense forests now being slowly stripped of foliage by autumn, up the covert trail winding around large rocks. His pace is unhurried but methodical, one steady step following another. His eyes are dull, breaths slightly laboured, two ears occasionally twitching toward the sound of swaying leaves but otherwise drooped. A weary sigh escapes him.

Last night, a group of demons tried to invade Flower Fruit Mountain.

He has seen to it himself the complete decimation of that pitiful band of opportunists, of course, but it doesn’t change the truth. This is the third attack from either the neighboring demon kings attempting to take over the mountain, or Heaven’s armies scouring for the elusive member of the Brotherhood, in the last moon cycle alone.

Flower Fruit Mountain is no longer a safe haven for its inhabitants, not for a long time now.

Gritting his teeth, Macaque clenches his right fist, letting the last of those demons’ blood trickle down the earth. The stain and the stench linger, but he pays them little mind knowing the strong currents at his destination are more than enough to wash them off. The guilt of being another reason his home is in danger, however, is harder to scrub away.

Arriving at the waterfall, he makes short work of cleaning himself, fully clothed, under the harsh flow of water. Pretending his headache is from the loud noise of the waterfall and not the turmoils swirling in his mind, he forces his brows to unfurrow and his body to relax, preparing for the long day ahead.

Getting out of the stream, he mumbles a quick spell to dry his fur and clothes. Looking up, he notices the sun has started to peek out behind the clouds, yet the winds from the east foretell long bouts of rain throughout the day.

A bad omen.

Flower Fruit Mountain has once been crowned the exempt from nature’s cruel hand, its dwellers taking pride in the soothing warmth and gentle chill of its mild weather in place of the usual seasons that plague the mainland. But now the dirt is void of the bugs’ chittering, the trees are shedding their leaves pre-winter, and creatures shiver during their gathering of food.

Things worsen, since the absence of the mountain’s king.

The day Sun Wukong was captured, Flower Fruit Mountain rained for seven days, seemingly mourning its loss and hiding the king’s subjects from the blades of Heaven’s armies. For months on end, the island’s trees refused to bear a single fruit, as if it was punishing its warriors for failing to protect its king.

As if it was punishing him.

Macaque tiredly wipes at his brows. Has he not suffered enough? When celestial soldiers blocked his way to the lone Sun Wukong fighting their Emperor, did he not scream at the unfairness? When Azure Lion, instead of retreating through his portal, seemingly jumped in front of Heaven’s spear tips and left his sworn brothers headless, one by one falling prey to celestial forces, could he have saved them all had he just tried a bit harder? When the years go by and he is the only one tending to the mountain and its inhabitants through winters of neglect, has he not sacrificed enough rest, shed enough blood to ensure the safety of Monkey King’s subjects?

The cold wind blows past his cheeks, giving its answer.

With a wave of his hand, the great waterfall splits open to give him passage, the only stable ward remaining, etched by his and Wukong’s hands themselves. His feet carry him through the winding tunnels to the extensive cave system, where families of monkeys choose their spot to cuddle up for the night in piles. Some opt for the obscure, small caves deeper into the mountain’s core, but most wander around the wide space at the front, where ample sunlight is still present.

As he walks past, some of the monkeys rise from their slumber and quietly chitter their greetings. Macaque bends down to pat their head, giving them a smile with his mouth closed.

The more energetic ones cling to his arms and climb on his head. He lets them do as they please, strolling toward the storage where they store their food for winter. A quick check confirms they are stocked for the next week, but foraging is becoming harder. Better keep an eye out for more pumpkins and pears, he muses.

He snatches an apple, slices it into small pieces with his claws, then offers them to the little monkeys around him. They chirp in gratitude, and when Macaque steps out to the main cave again, they quickly scamper off to share with their friends who have mostly woken up, the morning urging their stomachs.

Macaque lets them go into the storage to pick their own breakfast. After a headcount once they come back, and a bit of firm nudging to the monkeys who take too much to share with the others, he opens the waterfall. Monkeys big and small leap out of the cave, eager to stretch their legs and jump around on real trees. Some stay back but he doesn’t blame them, the air is only getting colder from here.

Hopping out to the entrance, Macaque eyes the groups of monkeys waiting for him. He claps his hands to catch their attention.

“Alright, you know the drill. One group goes down the southern side, the other goes east. Pick long lasting fruits if you can, I'm thinking of pumpkins or pears, but others are fine too. Remember to only take two thirds, leave the rest for other animals. Stay in our territories and immediately run if you see anyone strange.”

They chitter in response and begin to break off into the forest, three or more jumping together. Macaque sits on the ground and lean his back on a rock, catching up on some rest until he can feel the warmth seeping into his fur comfortably. The night patrols can take out so much of his strength when he’s the only one capable of it for hundreds of years.

The ache in his back subsiding, he stands and starts his own foraging routine. On his route he catches sight of various monkeys, some holding fruits in their arms while others are content to play around or sunbathe. They holler at him and he waves back, accepting the small fruits they give him. A few tag along for a while before they get distracted by a cool bug.

By noon, there is a sizable pile of assorted fruits at the front of the Water Curtain Cave, where Macaque examines them for spots and bugs. Deeming them acceptable, he motions for the monkeys to take them into the storage. A quick snack break is in order.

The sun is past its peak, casting away the clouds. Macaque leaves the monkeys to their devices and alone climbs the path leading to the top of the mountain, overlooking the island. This is a path well-known to him, and the flat, elevated rock at the cliffside welcomes him in its familiarity. Next to it on the ground are the broken pieces of the stone egg from which Wukong once hatched. He casts a longing look at it but moves to touch the smooth texture of the stone slab instead.

He sits down on the even surface, legs crossed, hands on his knees. Taking a deep breath, he faces the sun, spreading out his ears to their full glory. Six red-tinted appendages blossom from the sides of his head like lotus in summer, pointing heavenward.

Macaque pours all his magic into them, and listens.

“Laozi…this batch of immortality pills is…”

“The suspicious magic activity from the western territory…”

“...The Jade Emperor is overseeing the reparation of…”

Bits and pieces of passing conversations in heaven are caught by his ears, leaving him the painstaking job of filtering through them in an effort to find out something, anything, about Wukong and his sworn brothers. The intense process of concentration already brings about a familiar ache in the back of his head, but he pushes on.

After he barely escaped capture by Heaven’s armies, there was a period of time where he ventured close to the celestial realm to investigate and get information on the wellbeing of the Brotherhood. It was short-lived, since no one, even him, can sneak past the first gates of Heaven’s defense barrier for long without revealing themself. He resorted to using his exceptional hearing to eavesdrop while wandering around the outskirts of it.

The result was not impressive, but he at least knew that his older sworn brothers were subjected to some form of banishment. This brought hope to his plan that they could regroup and assess their situation once more. He might not have much of a voice in the Brotherhood but surely they would come together to rescue Wukong. Because no news or rumors about his best friend were heard by Macaque, and he feared what the Jade Emperor was planning.

He couldn’t stay away forever, having to return to Flower Fruit Mountain to take care of the monkeys, but he never stops honing his hearing to catch wind of his sworn brothers’ whereabouts.

Centuries went past, his ears got stronger, accustomed to the cracks in Heaven’s barrier. It still hurts, and he needs to focus on a specific area for it to work, but he keeps hoping.

Because what else is left but hope?

Because for all that effort, he has yet to know of their fates.

Until two hundred years ago, on one of his longer bouts of spying, a voice cut through his mind, small and cracked, but sharp as a knife in its effect to his heart. The voice he had been searching for, the voice he had been repeating in his mind every night for fear of forgetting his most cherished companion to the cruel passage of time and hardship. The voice of his sun.

A scared, desperate shout of his name, by Wukong.

LIU’ER!

It shook his soul to the core, sending his mind to overdrive, urging his ears and eyes and nose to zone in on it, spurring his feet to run and climb and crawl to the source of that call. Yet to his desperation, he couldn’t pinpoint the origin of it anywhere. He had been eavesdropping on Heaven but the sound came from somewhere farther, more distant, as if outside of any known realm. And Macaque was certain his ability was not good enough to pierce the curtain between realms at the time.

Could it be a trick, from Heaven or even his own mind? Impossible, for he has memorized the tone, the pitch, the timbre of Wukong’s voice better than anyone, and no illusion could fool his judgement. Not to mention, that name of his is unknown to anyone other than the two of them.

No matter. Now that he is aware Wukong has been kept somewhere outside of Heaven, alive, yet suffering, he will fight to change that fact.

Ears throbbing painfully, a sign this session is coming to an end. Macaque strains to take in a few more snippets.

“Flower Fruit Mountain…

…hunt… demons…

Erlang Shen…”

Macaque snaps his eyes open, body temporarily paralyzed by what he heard. A single thought invades his mind entirely.

His home is in danger.

Jolting up, he almost stumbles on his feet. Something isn’t right, and when he glances up he realizes the sky is becoming darker. A great cloud is approaching from the direction of the sun.

Terror overtakes him as he makes out the shadows of a celestial army rushing toward the mountain at inhuman speed.

“EVERYONE GET IN THE CAVE!” His shout reverberates through the mountain with the use of magic. He jumps from the cliffside he’s standing on, into the shadows at his feet to travel down the forest. Why now? Why him? Erlang Shen has never shown up in any of the searches for Macaque’s head before, and the swiftness of this hunt tells him it is planned. Erlang intends to finish things today.

The monkeys won’t be able to evacuate in time.

He summons hundreds of portals underneath any monkey’s shadow he can sense, dropping them into the safety of Water Curtain Cave. This sudden and exhausting feat drains at his strength and magic, making him dizzy. But it’s not enough. He can hear frightened monkeys on various parts of the island, shadows blending in with the trees’ and moving too fast for him to catch. And Heaven is not waiting any longer.

Macaque hovers above the sky of Flower Fruit Mountain, just in time for Heaven’s army to arrive with Erlang Shen leading the front, staring down at him. The island seems to freeze at the mere presence of the Immortal Sage.

No different from a locust swarm, Macaque seethes, barely concealing his glare at the hundreds of celestial soldiers blocking out the light. From this distance, Erlang Shen’s figure is backed by a halo from the sun’s outline. Like an eclipse, the only thing clear is the unnerving gaze of his three eyes, directed at the lone protector of the mountain.

Macaque dips into his magic core and pulls, his qi manifested in the form of a shadow staff. He gives it a twirl and the celestials a fake bow.

“To what pleasure do we owe your visit, O Heavenly Sage? This mountain is barren of its king and no treasure can be found here.” Macaque rambles pleasantly, knowing exactly the reason. He needs to stall for as long as possible.

Erlang looks down at him as if he’s a bug. The god’s three-pointed, double-edged spear glints menacingly, a silent threat for daring to talk to the Immortal Sage.

“You know why we are here, demon. For too long you have been left free, running from the consequences of your pitiful insurrection, but no more. Your savagery and wicked schemes shall end today.” The self-importance and haughtiness only a celestial’s voice can possess echo in the air, condemning Macaque’s fate.

He grits his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “We know nothing of the insurrection you speak of. Are you sure this is not just a misunderstanding? Let us part ways here in a show of goodwill, and Flower Fruit Mountain shall forge a bond worth keeping with Heaven.”

If anything, the palpable disdain on the face of the god only deepens.

“You ran away from the battlefield like a coward, and here you intend to lie your way out of your deserved punishment. Are you going to earn your warrior death, or are you going to scurry away and get squashed like a roach?”

“Nothing wrong in avoiding unnecessary conflict, O Sage.” Macaque repeats it like a mantra in his head. He must live to protect them all. He must live to rescue them. He must-

“So the name Sun Wukong screamed for all that time is nothing but a fraud that further proves his unworthiness.”

Erlang Shen raises his spear in time to block a hit from Macaque’s staff.

That settles it.

With a war cry that bares all his teeth, Macaque lunges at Erlang one more time. “Do not sully his name with your serpent tongue!” He snarls, rage boiling and claws showing.

The god merely pushes him back and flicks a hand to the soldiers behind. Then, all hell breaks loose.

A hundred clones shoot up from the shadows of the mountain below, meeting the celestial soldiers blow for blow. In the center of it all, two beings, one god, one demon trade devastating strikes with their respective weapons. The sky shakes with the intensity of raw magic emitting from each clash.

“Hit a spot, didn’t I? Such a shame you couldn’t hear your king dying yourself. Maybe I’ll demonstrate it to you.” Erlang taunts, not breaking a sweat from blocking Macaque’s heavy attacks.

“SHUT UP!” Macaque doesn’t care if his yell is pathetic or not. He hopes the spittle hit the other’s face.

Before long, Macaque is forced to descend and takes cover in the shadows beneath, his magic not strong enough to fight hundreds of battles at the same time. He glides soundlessly across the earth, close to the surface, feeling Erlang’s third eye tracking his movement. The screams of straying monkeys catch his ears and he turns abruptly, following the distressed noise.

If he can get all the monkeys behind the Water Curtain Cave, then he wins, no matter what Heaven does to him.

There! Under the shade of a peach tree, a young monkey hangs perilously by the strength of two weak branches. It must have stuck itself there when trying to rush to the cave. The monkey chirps at the sight of him, and Macaque rises, shooting up along the height of the tree to catch it. Just a little more.

Less than a hair away from it, Macaque cries out at the sudden pain searing through his right arm. He swivels at the source.

The black fur and sharp teeth of Erlang’s hound meet his eyes.

Damn it! In the urgency of the situation he has forgotten Heaven’s loyal mutt. The dog that had a part in Wukong’s capture now gnaws at his arm ferociously, intending to rip it off. The wretched thing set him up with this trap.

Biting back a yowl, Macaque aims his own claws at the dog’s eyes, slashing a straight line through its face. The hound reels back at the pain, releasing its jaws. Macaque uses the opportunity to deliver a kick to its stomach, sending it flying and crashing onto a nearby tree, reducing the wood to splinters.

He summons a shadow and catches the monkey, portaling it into the cave.

The rustling of leaves notifies him of a presence coming toward him, fast. One turn and he comes face to face with Erlang once more. The dog, recovered, now circles the feet of its master.

“Not bad. I expect worse from a flighty coward of your kind, but this is a pleasant surprise. Lay your life before me and I'll consider a swift death.”

The sounds of distant fighting above and the uncomfortable sensation of blood soaking through his sleeve add to his headache. Macaque’s grip on his staff tightens. He grits his teeth, gaze burning. “Never.”

Erlang snaps his fingers. “Have it your way, then.”

The ground underneath them burst into flames.

Wh-? Startled, Macaque jerks back at the sudden scorching fire licking his feet, vision zeroing on the way the earth crumbles like ashes at the heat, and that mistake costs him the fight. In a blink, Erlang materialises in front of him and slashes his spear across Macaque’s chest.

A brief moment of blessed numbness passes through him. Then, all of Macaque’s nerves explode in inscrutable pain.

He screams, dropping to his knees and curling in on himself. All of his clones and portals dispel, giving the celestial soldiers free reign of the sky to begin their annihilation of anything that moves on the mountain. Time and blood pour out of him uncontrollably, soaking the ground in helpless agony.

He should have known this fight was doomed from the start.

“Magnificient, isn’t it? This fire is a gift from Heaven, sourced from Laozi’s furnace itself. I believe Sun Wukong’s subjects should have a taste of their foolish king’s punishment.” Erlang’s voice is a knife cutting through the mudded water of Macaque’s cracked moans. He faintly makes out the glint of Erlang’s three eyes amidst the charred and darkened landscape.

Macaque cannot bear to think of where his blood is spilling out. The world seemed to spin around him in a dizzying blur, his vision clouded by the stars of pain that danced across his field of vision with every twitch. He opens his mouth to growl, but a fresh batch of blood gurgles out instead of noise.

Erlang slowly approaches him, and Macaque mind only hones in on one thing.

Erlang will kill them all if he loses.

He cannot lose.

The god is pushed back from the abrupt flare of magic blasting out from where the monkey is kneeling. Erlang watches as every shadow on the mountain liquefies, flowing into the small area surrounding Macaque, the oppressive power painting it a pitch black. The sheer force of shadow magic convening is calling forth black clouds, veiling the sky and aiding its caster. In the middle of it all, only a vague shape can be seen letting out loud wails that reverberate across the land.

The darkness keeps condensing, changing from an ink-like substance into strips of shadow resembling bandages. They wrap around the wounded warrior, size increasing and form solidifying.

With a thunderous roar, the great War Form of Flower Fruit Mountain’s remaining warrior announces its arrival to the surface world.

Yelps from the soldiers scattering on the sky can be heard, but after the initial shock that freezes the celestial soldiers’ advance, they quickly arrange themselves into a new formation, with Erlang Shen shouting orders at the front.

“Surround it and strike at its blind spots! I’ll distract it,” the god scowls, diving headfirst into the monster crouching protectively in front of the cave.

The soldiers, spirits reawakened by their leader, break into groups circling the purple beast. Yet before one can approach, shadow bindings shoot out from Macaque’s War Form, snatching them from their positions and throwing them carelessly down the beach with a force so strong it leaves craters in its wake.

The sky begins to pour. Large, heavy drops of rain falling, blurring the soldiers’ vision, fueling the beast’s rampant. Flower Fruit Mountain is crying, trying to put out the fires ravaging its soil.

Erlang strikes, the attack once again thwarted by gigantic limbs and threads of shadow swiping at his advances. The god fumes, casting a glance back to see half of the soldiers have been taken out. This fight has been dragging on too long.

The beast shrieks, drawing his attention. It stands tall, maw gaping, claws closing in on both sides of the god in another attempt to rip him apart with its teeth.

Erlang’s third eye narrows, piercing past the purple outline, through the darkness of its torso. He finds the monkey demon in the center, a frail, weak thing lashing out its final breaths. Time to put an end to this frivolous masquerade.

One arm raised, he cries, “Down!”. Divine thunder ruptures the sky, illuminating the terrain with Heaven’s inescapable wrath. Numerous devastating bolts strike Macaque at once, mercilessly tearing at shadow flesh and incinerating the earth. The beast howls in agony, toppling over, chest exposed for Heaven to deliver righteous retribution.

War Form forcibly relinquished, Macaque lies heaving on his back in front of the entrance of Water Curtain Cave, limbs splayed uselessly. The wards shimmer in the rain, and Macaque makes a point to be relieved that the monkeys on the other side of the waterfall won’t be able to see their last guardian die.

Blood has soaked completely through his armor, mixing with the rain to trickle down the earth. His ribs screamed in protest with every breath, each inhalation a sharp reminder of the blows he had taken. His ears take in the distant cries of monkeys being slaughtered. His nose scrunches at the smell of burnt flesh and smoke. Water drops fall into his eyelids, making him blink.

The rain could do nothing to quell celestial fire.

The footsteps coming his way ought to quicken his heart, but all he can feel is quiet despair. He will never live to find his sworn brothers again. He will never live to see Wukong, free and happy, ever again. Their home will be laid to waste, the monkeys left defenseless to human’s picking, that is if they make it past today. Macaque’s guilt brings tears to his eyes, impending grief too heavy for the floodgate to stop.

Erlang Shen enters his vision, eyes blazing so bright in the muted darkness Macaque has to shield his face. A pointless move, because when the god stomps on his chest with one foot, the warrior’s desperate grasp at the leg forces his trembling arms away.

“That was a good fight, I must admit. Though your suffering was lengthened for naught. I pity you for mistaking an imposter as your god.” Erlang’s remark is cold, foot blocking Macaque’s airway and answer.

Macaque can only let out a broken exhale, a death rattle in preparation.

“Your purpose shall be fulfilled here.” Erlang swings his weapon, the glint of the blade catching Macaque’s sight first, then the ominously glowing glyph engraved at the dull end of the spear. Macaque has no time to question before Erlang uses it to plunge straight through his head, the point of contact falling perfectly at his right eye.

Macaque’s howl deafens his own ears.

Erlang is unfazed at the futile spasms of muscles and the gurgles of blood spewing from Macaque’s mouth. The god steps back, using the momentum to pluck the bloodstained spear out of Macaque’s brain, not unlike removing a stubborn weed.

Through his hazy final thoughts and remaining eye, the sharp blade of the spear gleams so, so bright in the dark, a brush of white on a cruel, crimson canvas of carnage.

Then his chest is struck, and Macaque can think no more.

Chapter Text

I'm on my way, I'm on my way!

I've got my lungs and that's a start,

And I've got my love inside my heart

I'm on my way, I'm on my way!

I may be tiny and alone,

But I won't stop until I'm home.

I'm on my way, I'm on my way!

-

Consciousness comes to him in waves.

Macaque floats, both free and burdened at once, not unlike a deep sea creature drifting mindlessly along the currents. His body is weightless, almost intangible, while his head feels petrified, a rock dragging him under. He can dimly make out the featherweight pressure touching him all over, something familiar yet not in its course. The force holds him down for a while, before pulling him up, up, to somewhere resembling the surface if the sudden heaviness in his limbs is real.

If this is the Diyu, then Macaque should take his time and forget about reality when he’s still able to.

With this thought, he lets himself drown once more into blessed silence.

Eventually, he wakes up.

Despite the ache making itself known in every nook and cranny of his bones, trying to lull him back to unconsciousness, the clarity creeping into his mind gives Macaque no choice. Slowly, he gains awareness of his body: the soreness embedded in his muscles, the lead settling into his limbs which refuse any movement, the throbbing of his organs deepened by the hand laid on his stomach, and his unending nausea.

The itch on his eye wins out, however, and Macaque squeezes his lids tightly to relieve the irritation. The move tugs at his facial muscles, nerves tingling after being suffocated for too long. Unfortunately, it does little to help his discomfort, so he fights the bone-deep fatigue with all the strength he has left to jerk his head as if that stubborn act could help. To an outsider, it might just look like his head is lolling to the side.

The action, though futile because the itch is so deep he gets the urge to scratch through his skin, serves to remind Macaque of his mobility. With a mental jolt, he realizes this ache, this soreness, this dull pain is nothing compared to the agony he should be experiencing.

He was dead, wasn't he?

Stabbed twice, through his head and heart.

The gods never do a half-assed job with their punishments.

Then why does his body feel intact? His tenderized ribs are free of the sharp sensation of rended flesh. Despite the dried, flaky blood on his hands and under his nails, the fact he’s not actively bleeding out is a miracle in itself. He has not opened his eyes yet, but his face is definitely not a pulp of gore right now.

Everything seems strangely… stable. As if he has just woken up from a nap after a long day of sparring, and not a literal fight to the death. And he’s sure he was dead! Not in any universe could his mind play such a graphic trick involving his worst nightmares, ones he doesn’t even know he had. Macaque’s demise at Heaven’s hands is an irrefutable truth.

So why isn’t he suffering in Diyu right now?

Macaque remembers Wukong’s retelling of the king’s involuntary trip to Diyu. They were both young back then, their bond new yet profound in their deep understanding of each other. Wukong used to say that he knew they’d be best friends the moment he first laid eyes on Macaque, washed up on the island’s beach, beaten and bruised from years of running and barely surviving on the mainland. He had relied on that gut feeling to fuel his efforts to befriend the skittish and at times feral monkey demon who insisted on leaving the first chance he could, to the eventual success in persuading him to stay on the island paradise, where Wukong’s constant affections and pampering in those initial years slowly filled Macaque’s belly and heart, before he could begin to repay the other in small gestures seeped in quiet loyalty.

“When I saw you then, it was like a tug at my heart! My soul begged to be close to yours,” Wukong once said, drunk and stupid on the celestial wine he stole for both of them to nurse on under the cool shade of their tree, the one Wukong had dragged him over to shield his unconscious body from the sun when they first met.

Macaque had scoffed at the corny sentiment, smushing the young king’s cheeks together with his palms to prompt a childish whine from the monkey who dared to use his lap as a pillow. Yet at the same time, he had felt terribly comforted in the knowledge that he was not the only one with an indescribable need to entangle their existences together, the same need which had acted as a soothing balm to his wanderlust, yet infected him with a homesickness so fervent for a place he had never resided in before. Souls were no simple matter to laugh at, but their vague nudging more often than not left their owners doubting their own intuition.

Here, where the breeze was nectar-sweet and his dreams took the form of auburn fur and golden eyes, all the doubts in him melted away like a riverbank in spring. His heart thumped loudly, in sync with the constant, steady beating in the other’s chest everytime they cuddled up.

So when that constant beat suddenly stopped during one of their afternoon naps, Macaque startled his own mind with a fear so unfathomable that he cried for the first time since setting foot on Flower Fruit Mountain.

For one terrible, horrible night Macaque shook and shouted, begged and prayed at an unresponsive king, trembling hands desperately cupping cold cheeks, feeling for a pulse that adamantly stayed silent. His best friend, his only friend who unknowingly held his heart, Macaque hadn’t the chance to tell him yet, had turned to stone. When he ran out of tears and strength to hold himself up above his friend who had chosen to leave him forever, Macaque collapsed, curling up on the other’s unmoving chest, ears pressed close to where his heart was under the soft pelt Macaque had stripped his shirt out of to better listen for heartbeats, wishing in vain that the ache in his own heart would transfer and rouse the unnerving stillness of the other.

The next day, he would have to break the news to Wukong’s subjects, but that night he was alone in the mourning of the world’s most precious gift to his soul.

When dawn came, he was woken up by gentle hands caressing his six ears and a familiar rumbling from a monkey demon’s throat. Eyes blinking groggily, he swatted at the fingers tickling the sensitive appendages, intending to go back to sleep. Wukong still hadn’t learnt how to handle his ears outside of gleeful fawning.

Wait. Wukong?

Macaque snapped his head up so fast he got dizzy from it, his body shooting straight up in wired attention. Here he was, his best friend breathing and moving, who flinched at Macaque’s abrupt impression to the waking world. With a flush to his cheeks and an awkward titter, Wukong put his hands up in a placating manner. “Sorry for waking you up?”

Macaque, wide eyed and gaping, wordlessly started grabbing the other’s face, pinching chubby cheeks and patting unruly curls, molding his head like a clump of clay in a dazed effort to make sense of what had happened. Had he dreamt it all up? A nightmare his mind used to scare him out of this newfound intimacy? His dried tear tracks and puffy eyes were proof of the grief he had endured. How was Wukong alive?

Wukong, sensing his dumbfounded bewilderment, spoke up, “Woah bud! Hands off the goods for a bit, mind ya? I think I know what’s going on in that head of yours, and it’s fine! The Monkey King always bounces back, see?” He caught the fingers which had moved to poke at his stomach in his grip, bringing them to cup his face. Macaque could feel the heat radiating from both Wukong’s healthy blush and the inner part of his palms, thawing the cold from Macaque’s hands in a sandwich of warmth.

That burning comfort knocked Macaque out of his trance, into the next emotion in line swirling in his mind: anger. He roughly yanked his hands out of Wukong’s hold to grab the other’s ears - a move he hated being done to himself - shaking the whimpering king violently as he began his tirade.

“Wukong what the fuck happened?! I thought you were dead! Were you pranking me? I’m never gonna talk to you ever again if that was the truth!”

His best friend - scratch that, he was too mad at him right now - did little to stop Macaque’s physical venting, deciding to let the worried warrior let it all out. He did, however, try to defend himself between whines. “I was! Dead, I mean. I can explain.” Wukong offered him a nervous laugh. “You know I could never stay still for long, let alone trick you with that.”

Ire apparent on his face, Macaque settled down on Wukong’s stomach, straddling him with arms crossed. “Get to it, ” he spat.

Cowed by his scalding glare, Wukong went right to the explanation. “Well we were napping right? Everything was nice and breezy, then out of nowhere I woke up in a dark place! I couldn’t see anything past three arms’ span when these two guys appeared to tie me up. Which was very rude, plus they happened to be Ox Head and Horse Face, y’know the servants of Diyu? So I kinda guessed where they were taking me to, but not why they were doing that, since I spent ten years getting my immortality and I’m pretty sure arresting me is illegal because I’m a king. They dragged me to Diyu, past the gates of the eighteen hells but before they could throw me into the Steaming Hell I got out of the ropes, summoned my staff and beat those two black and blue! Then I demanded to be brought before the Ten Kings, where this cheeky monkey managed to convince them to let me take a look at the Books of the Dead. When they were distracted I crossed out my name and also all of the monkeys’ names that I could remember with a time limit. That… was when they noticed. I might have caused a smalllll commotion during my escape but the thing we should take out of this is that I think I’m more immortal now!”

By the end of Wukong’s animated retelling, he had a satisfied grin on his face and a breathless look to his composure. Macaque, on the other hand, was so stunned he dropped his crossed arms in order to stare at Wukong blankly.

“You… went to Diyu?”

Enthusiastic nodding.

“Fought the officials?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘fought’. It was more of a friendly fiery distraction. Ha!”

“And got out unscathed?”

Wukong flashed him a winning smile.

Macaque kept staring at the young king like he had grown a second head, which would be more believable than whatever he spouted just now. He fixed the other with a deadpan look. “You’re lying.”

The offended gasp Wukong let out could vacuum all the dust around them in a five zhang radius. “It’s true!”

“No way.” Macaque shook his head, getting off of Wukong’s lap. The headache he had been ignoring was coming back. and he rubbed his temple with a groan. Wukong sat up, mindful of his friend’s mood. He wrapped his arms around Macaque’s stomach sideways, burying his head in the crook of Macaque’s neck.

“You know I was… there, Macaque,” he murmured. Some of the seriousness of the situation might have gotten through Wukong’s thick skull, and he reverted to avoiding saying that word the way he avoided the concept.

Macaque sighed, “I know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

Because if that was true, then Wukong just pissed off a whole realm. This was not simple as one or ten demon lords anymore. There would be retaliation. The eyes of Diyu were on them now, maybe even the celestial court if they were unlucky enough. And Macaque knew his luck.

He just hoped they could get through it.

The silence stretched on between them, one lost in thoughts of their tumultuous future, the other content to bask in the moment. The sun had risen past the mountain peak, casting the world in its warm golden rays. Birds chipped joyfully up above dewy tree branches, the monkeys waking up inside the Water Curtain Cave making their usual ruckus of motions and noises. Macaque focused his six ears toward the familiar thumping in Wukong’s chest, listening to the steadfast sound which had been his anchor to the present during his many bouts of escalated anxiety.

“I’m not sure if crossing your name out can get you immortality, to be honest.” He said after a long moment of contemplating.

Wukong perked up. “How so? Me and you and a bunch of my subjects are not under those prudes’ governance anymore.”

“Everyone is under something’s governance, Wukong. That’s how the Ten Kings know where dead souls are to retrieve them after death. If you cross our names out, where will we go? There wasn't any precedent to study about the effects of this act.” Macaque’s brows furrowed. “The best we can hope for is oblivion.”

“Oh.” Wukong quieted down, once again giving in to the prolonged silence.

When he thought the king would leave it there and get on with their morning, he heard the other’s determined exclamation. “Then I’ll be there.”

“Huh?”

“I say, I’ll be there for you,” he repeated. “I fought my way out of Diyu, I can find you and everyone’s souls and bring you all back.” Wukong’s eyes glinted. He stood up, spirit too high to be contained, turning around to offer Macaque his hand. “I will get to you before Diyu’s pesky servants can take what’s mine.”

Macaque couldn’t force his gaze away. He was wholly fixated, utterly entranced by the way Wukong shone under daylight, the breeze tousling his hair, the sky embracing his back, the universe cheering him on in all of his endeavors. In that moment, the invisible bond between their souls felt so strong, so tangible Macaque could see it glimmering in the sun.

His heart sang, clear and true, I would follow you anywhere.

“If you say so,” he snorted, taking the warm hand in his hold.

-

The cold ground under Macaque pulls him back to the present.

He takes a deep breath. Along with the sensation in his limbs returning is the ache in his heart that has been ever present since the day it all went wrong. There’s no Wukong to save him now, no friend to drag his soul back to the rotting body lying still on Flower Fruit Mountain. He is dead, only nothingness awaits him.

What’s next, then? He can’t stay here, whatever “here” is, forever. Eventually he will have to get up to find a path for himself. And it is almost always a one-way street for those without enlightenment. Dead, Diyu, reincarnation, repeat, with the trek to Diyu even more troublesome for him without a guide to collect his soul.

With the things he has done in life, he wonders how long he will stay there until the Ten Kings deem him fit for reincarnation.

That’s a thought for later. He should worry about their punishments right now. Which of the eighteen Hells will he experience first?

The Steaming Hell, like Wukong almost did, for his involvement in the failed coup?

Or the Hell of the Mountain of Knives, for disrespecting the gods in the first place?

He doesn’t chuckle at the clear answer, but it’s a near thing. The Hell of Mirrors of Retribution of course would be the most suitable for the likes of him. Running, deceiving, hiding, all to escape the fate granted to his sworn brothers, no place is more fitting to force him to witness his cowardly self, again and again and again, until he begs for the taste of real punishments if only to wash out the mouthful of bitter guilt.

Funny, how fate catches up to him, no matter how much he runs.

He is once again reminded of the odd tangibility of his body. Shouldn’t a ghost be more… wispy? The fact he can sense the temperature on his own skin ought to mark him as something peculiar, but he has never been dead before so it’s not like he can prove it. Was this form the reason Wukong could fight back against Diyu’s servants? Macaque hopes he won’t be able to become tired on the long journey ahead.

The remaining four senses creep back to him like scattered cats wandering over to curl on his chest. First his smell, the scent of damp rocks and blood make their way into his nostrils, pleasant in their intensity and logic. He was on Flower Fruit Mountain after all, the sky was pouring when he took his last breath, so it makes sense for the smells to carry over to his death.

Then, his taste. His mouth feels dry and bland, which piques his curiosity. Can he eat or consume the essence of food as a ghost? The mountain’s fruits are dear to him, he would loathe the possibility that he can only eat what counts as offerings. The little monkeys left on the island cannot give him a religious burial. He doesn’t fault them for it.

The next in line is his hearing. It takes longer than he expected, for he once heard that audition is the last sense to go and one of the first that mortals gain upon their birth. The piercing memory of his own guttural shriek at the mercy of Erlang’s perverse jurisdiction gnaws at his mind, giving him an answer on the sense’s reluctance to reunite with its owner. Nevertheless, the relief flooding his system upon the sound of dripping water entering his ears is immeasurable. True to his namesake, the temporary loss of hearing to him is similar to the loss of several limbs. None of his magic responds to his command to keep up the glamour, so all of his ears are free to catch the steady drip, drip, drip of droplets falling onto a puddle.

Strange.

Shouldn’t the roaring waterfalls of Flower Fruit Mountain be the thing that conquers the emptiness of his surroundings? The ever-constant white noise he has learnt to associate with home, one he tuned out with the help of another, more amiable, sound of heartbeat. Yet here, despite the strain of the six appendages, no splashing of harsh water colliding with smooth stones leaks into his eardrums.

Instead, as his mind and hearing get sharper, his attention is piqued by a rapid thumping somewhere close to his supine body.

A heartbeat? One so loud that Macaque isn’t sure if there is any other in the area. Where can he be if he’s alone with one single, agitated being? Cautious of the many ways a creature may take advantage of his vulnerable state, Macaque carefully unfurls his aching ears a bit wider to get a bearing on his unexpected companion. Pinpricks bites at his lobes for the audacity of moving, he brushes them off, rather the short-lived pain than the loss of his limbs or worse. Eyes still screwed shut, his ears make the slightest twitch toward the sound above.

A hitched breath. Macaque freezes. He has been noticed.

Fuck. Whatever that thing is, it knows Macaque is at least conscious now. The thumping heartbeat gets louder and quicker, if that’s even possible, accompanied with ragged panting. Some kind of beast? Macaque fights the fear crawling up his spine and the urge to sink into the shadows, willful of his inability. His barely noticeable flinch only serves to doom him, the burning gaze directed at his form is scorching through all his meager barriers. Macaque braces himself for claws and teeth.

Yet it only takes a lone, meek call to shatter his defense.

… Liu’er?

The world comes to a standstill.

If Macaque’s dead, then he’s either in Nirvana listening to all of the universe’s pleasure, or the deepest bowels of Diyu waiting for the torments to kick in. If Macaque’s alive, he will curse all of Heaven and Hell for putting him through this to toy at his grief.

Because the name he just heard is by no one else other than Wukong.

Macaque twitches, then squirms, then full-on shakes. His mortal form becomes a slave to the overwhelming need to see it, to see him. His arms move, uncoordinated. His legs thrash uncontrollably. Every nerve under his skin wants to climb out of his flesh to rush toward the source of his happiness and sorrow. Macaque uses all his might and more to flip on his stomach, all limbs supporting his body, all senses aimed at the person above his head. With a force immeasurable, he pries his eyelids open.

The sight in front of Macaque renders him breathless.

His king, his sun, the shining star to his existence, the other half of his soul, his best friend Wukong, is here. He is here, in flesh and blood. He is here, a mere two zhang before Macaque, trapped in a pillar of rock and chains.

Macaque jolts. He is here, dirty and miserable, with mouth open in palpable surprise, eyes brimming with tears. Wukong is here, looking at him the way a pessimist waits for a good dream to end, daring not to dawdle on fleeting paradises. Macaque himself has been well acquainted with that look in the mirrors for five hundred years.

Heart pounding at his ribcage, Macaque decides he’s had enough of waiting.

The short distance between them feels like miles and miles of flaming mountains. Macaque wills all his strength into the pathetic excuse of limbs attached to his body, crawling on all four toward the lone holder of his heart. Chapped lips pried wide to allow large gulps of air and broken syllables escaping his parched throat, the action forcing the scabs to burst and stain his tongue with fresh blood. Macaque croaks out.

“...’kong. …ukong. Wukong!”

The choked sounds hit Wukong like a slab of brick. He flinches in disbelief, then leans forward in wonder and euphoric delight. Macaque recognises it now, the firm, fast-paced heartbeats of his best friend’s happiness. He would have sobbed and screamed at his mind for not realising it sooner, had it not been for the enormous effort already poured into his sluggish moves.

Wukong’s hoarse voice responds to his in excited chitters, joy blooming on his features like flowers in spring. His right hand, free from the confines of the glimmering wards, waves and grasps at the air as if to pull Macaque closer with an invisible force.

“...’acaque. Macaque! Liu’er!” His calls get stronger, louder, clearer the more he continues, rusty gears once again getting accustomed to moving. They fuel Macaque’s fervor like water in the desert. More than once his arms give out, letting him fall face first on the hard ground beneath, yet through blurry vision and bruised palms, Macaque hones in on that beacon to keep inching forward, the light at his destination the most rewarding prize of all.

Closer and closer, Macaque can hear the blood rushing through Wukong’s veins now, the proof of his dreams made true flows from six ears to sit proudly in his chest, coiling around his heart like grapevines. His slow creeping brings him to the base of the pillar, where Wukong’s teary Liu’ers rain down above him, a sunshower of hope. Macaque’s fingers grab at the jutted rocks, propping himself up by pure determination, scrambling up the pillar on shaky legs. His muscles protest every move. Macaque couldn’t care less.

If Wukong’s voice is the lantern guiding Macaque through the dark, his cheeks downright burn at their first contact. Macaque can’t stop the watery laugh bubbling from his throat, and it seems that the same can be said for the other.

“WUKONG!”

“MACAQUE!”

Macaque throws his arms around Wukong’s neck, using it as the sole anchor to hoist himself upright and as close to his best friend as possible, their cheeks squished together. His best friend, Macaque thinks, delirious with love. He can finally see him again, he can finally touch him again. He’s touching him right now. Macaque is smiling so wide his face hurts, tongue tasting blood from his cracked lips. He’s so warm. Macaque squeezes him tighter.

Wukong joins in with his own wet laugh. “Macaque. Macaque. Liu’er,” he repeats his names like a mantra, pressing impossibly closer to the arms wrapping around his neck and the cheek smushed against his own. “You’re here. You came for me,” he gasps between the words, hot tears mixing with Macaque’s to roll down their cheeks. He buries his face into Macaque’s collar to wipe away his snot, before coming up again to chase after the skin contact. “You came for me.”

Macaque ought to take a better look at his best friend after so many years apart, but he can’t bear to separate from their snug embrace at the moment. He rubs against the prominent cheekbones, when did he get so thin, he sobs, then moves to nuzzle at his chin, his philtrum, his nose, the space between his eyes, his forehead, his unruly hair, taking everything in with blind admiration. Macaque stands on the golden chain at the base of the pillar for better support, his first full sentence comes out as a whine, “Yes, yes, I’m here. I missed you. I love you. I love you.” The words come flooding out of his chest like the waterfalls in front of their home back on Flower Fruit Mountain, just as clear and true despite the time apart.

They spend a long time like that, just feeling, basking in their shared presences. Words fail them, sniffles and whimpers gradually turn into full-on bawling, high-pitched wails echoing and feeding each other’s cries. Their howls bounce off the stones of the prison, filling the space with immense relief. Their eyes squeeze shut, mouths open to pant and breathe in their mingled scents. Snot and tears and sweat and blood running down their faces, soiling Macaque’s shirt. They must look so gross right now. Neither cares.

They don’t know how long they have been crying, but eventually the sobbing dies down into broken moans and whispers of tenderness. They part, not without a final kiss, relishing in their hard-earned reunion. The kiss only breaks because of their respective breathy giggles and lack of air.

Macaque holds Wukong’s face in his palms, bleary eyes blinking to take in his best friend’s appearance.

Wukong looks… rough. Not counting the myriads of warded chains enveloping the pillar, no doubt stretching far into the surroundings, Wukong appears dirty and scratched up engulfed by the rock, only his head, right arm, and part of his knee showing. The top of his head is covered in dust, coarse hair no longer possesses the fluffy soft quality befitting of the Monkey King. Macaque is reminded of his own unkempt fur before arriving at Flower Fruit Mountain, shaggy and matted without the grooming every monkey on the island is entitled to. His heart aches at the sight of it on his friend.

Wukong leans into the palm caressing his cheek, sending him a gaze so terribly fond. Macaque’s breath hitches at what he sees.

Wukong’s eyes, once a kind golden shade, now resemble sparkling stars rising from a sea of blood. His pupils are sharp and pointed, standing out from a background of crimson scleras. A glance confirms the tears he has been shedding pose the same vermilion shade as his eyes, the smeared streaks on his cheeks painting them a muted red.

Macaque stutters, “Are your eyes bleeding?!”

Wukong lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe. They put me in the Trigram Furnace for a while to burn the immortalities out. Didn’t work. Got these.”

“...Do they hurt?”

“A little. Got used to it. Grounded me.” Wukong shakes his head, seemingly done or tired of the reminder. He turns to kiss Macaque’s palm, tentatively frowning back. “What happened to your right eye?”

Macaque blinks. Now that the adrenaline in his veins has slowly abated, he takes note of the way his sight wobbles and blurs. The shadow has thought it was temporary due to his abrupt awakening, but it is in fact missing something. The distance feels off, yet worse is the fog clouding the periphery of his vision. It was the same thing that made Macaque doubt Wukong’s newly acquired vibrant scleras from afar.

Bringing his right hand up to touch the eyelid, Macaque stills when he realises his vision doesn’t lose any clarity despite the closed eye. Stranger, is the raised and wrinkled skin where the eyelid should be. He traces it with his fingers, a relatively round patch breaking off into spiked points, not unlike a classic drawing of the sun with its light beams depicted artistically with triangles. This new development covers the whole of his right eye, branching halfway to his temple. Macaque opens the eye, finding he can’t see out of it.

“...Oh,” he exclaims lamely. The persistent itch when he first woke up makes sense now.

“Did something happen?” Wukong asks worriedly. Macaque can’t think of a gentle point to start his story with. A moment of anxious silence passes before Wukong nervously continues, seemingly remembering some crucial details. “Mac, how did you get here?”

“...I,” Macaque flounders through his words, before deciding to settle with the most probable fact. “I think… I died.”

“What?!” Wukong screeches.

“Hey, don’t fret. I’m still not sure what happened but it’s good that I got here, right?” Macaque smiles awkwardly, making his best attempt at consoling the alarmed king to no avail, his own panic blocked out of his mind momentarily in favour of tending to his best friend’s. Wukong shakes off the hand on his cheek to properly give him an admonishing stare. “How could I not?! What do you mean you died?”

“Uh. Yeah that’s the short version of it. A lot of things went wrong really fast. I got impaled by Erlang’s spear.” Macaque says sheepishly, as if ashamed that he got killed by Heaven’s best general. He ducks his head, avoiding Wukong’s horrified expression.

“Hey. Hey. Mac, look at me,” his friend calls out to him. It’s physically painful to do so, but Macaque timidly complies. Wukong’s brows furrow to make his point clear. “I don’t know the specifics of it, and I won’t ask you to tell me right now, but please, do not feel guilty. I know whatever happened, you tried your best. You did what you could.”

Macaque has thought that his tears have all drained, but Wukong’s words are stitches applied to his fresh wounds, reminding him of his failure yet necessary for the start of healing. His face falls, liquid emotion overflows his corneas, facial nerves starting to contort in untold grief. Macaque finds refuge in Wukong’s neck to hide his unsightly quiet sobbing.

Wukong stays with him through it, whispering soothing comfort into his ears through the midst of his breakdown.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, voice small and wet.

“I know.”

“I tried… but there were so many of them… I couldn’t stop them… I couldn’t save them…”

“...”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Thank you for being there. I’m sorry too.”

At the end of their second crying session, both are tired and worn. Macaque’s feet threaten to give out on him, the grip on the chain beneath weakening subtly. Noticing the arms latching onto him begin to slip, the king nudges the stubborn shadow.

“Hey, do you want me to give you some magic? It could help with the injuries.”

Macaque is too exhausted to turn down the offer, though he can’t help but be curious. “You can use magic here?”

“Yeah, kinda. I can only release it. I tried to absorb the energy of these seals when I first got here but it wouldn’t budge. I think they want to slowly drain my magic so I stopped lashing out after a while.” There is an underlying sort of bitterness that leaks through his delivery.

Macaque’s face is pinched. He has so many questions, but he guesses they will have to wait. He nodded, leaning to touch their forehead together.

With a motion so practiced it brings up another wave of nostalgia in his chest, Macaque feels the flow of spiritual magic meet him at the point of contact, spreading out. It tickles the six of his ears, making them flick, before continuing down his body. The slow trickle creeps through his veins, warming him from the inside, chasing away fear and uncertainty. The familiar warmth of summers long passed on Flower Fruit Mountain graces his skin and for a moment, he can believe they are back on the island, snuggling under their tree, clothes damp from sleeping outside all night unconcerned of the heavy dews greeting them at dawn. Macaque would wake with a kiss on his nose, gentle fingers on his ears, soft fur and belly in his hold. Sweet it would be, the peach they shared for a light snack before breakfast, and sweeter the kiss to catch all the juice running down the corner of Wukong’s lips from his messy eating. The sky, so early in the morning, would still be painted a cushy pink, fluffy clouds shielding away the sun for the time being. The waves crashing against the shore would blend in with the cacophony picking up inside the waterfall, singing the island’s own distinct hymn. Macaque had seen numerous islands, visited countless beaches before settling down here, but nowhere else was he so endeared to the sound of discordant chittering. Their stretches would be refreshing, their bodies energized, sun rays heating their pelts and giving Wukong a youthful flush to his cheeks. The chase to the orchards would be full of laughter, the trees bowing to offer them only the best bounties. Where the fruits are plump and the grass cushions their steps, Wukong and Macaque would fill in the last nooks of each other’s senses.

Macaque lets the last of Wukong’s magic wash through him, and opens his eyes to gaze at the most beautiful being the world has ever made.

The sight sends a rush to his poor heart, kickstarting it along with the rest of Macaque’s healing abilities. His fractured bones begin to regenerate, the many small cuts underneath his clothes scabbing over. The dull pain plaguing his body lessens, muscles nearly back to working condition. Guess being mainly made of magic has both perks and downsides.

Macaque isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not that the itch on the right side of his face has ebbed away. No further healing penetrates the barrier of the scar’s edges, leaving it a permanent mark.

A deep sigh escapes him, discomfort fleeing to make way for the usual weariness. Macaque’s eyes meet Wukong’s when he’s finished.

“Thanks. I feel much better now.”

Wukong smiles. “It’s the least I can do, bud.”

Macaque cracks his neck with a satisfying pop. He takes the chance to look around, finding himself lost in the sheer size of the cavern they are in. A glance back only adds to that befuddlement.

“Is that thing always there?”

Wukong cranes his head to look over Macaque’s shoulder. “Uh, no. It appeared with you some time ago. Gave me one heck of a scare to see blood starting to crawl up the floor, to be honest. Then you materialized the same way and I freaked out for real.”

“Huh.” True to Wukong’s assessment, the blood on the ground where Macaque spawned smells fresh, and definitely his own. But it’s a second concern to the complex magic circle formed from the liquid, clearly the reason he is here. Did he cast it when he was dying?

“I know I joked about it earlier but how did I get here? Last I remembered I was certainly killed. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

“I don’t know. I thought you couldn’t die?”

“Wukong, I told you the peaches and wine only grants longevity. Of course I can die, my soul just wouldn’t get delivered to-” His voice trails off as he comes to a conclusion. A wacky, bizarre conclusion, the type that becomes miraculously logical in the presence of the Monkey King.

He blinks. “Wukong, I think you are my king now.”

“Ooh. You finally admit it?” Wukong somehow finds the spirit (hah!) to jest at the moment. Macaque pushes down the urge to hit him over the head.

“No, dumbass. I mean you are basically the Ten Kings of Diyu to my soul now. The tales say that all souls get dragged before the Ten Kings to receive their rightful punishment upon death. But you crossed my name out. I’m not under Diyu’s jurisdiction anymore so my soul unconsciously reached out to the closest thing.” Wukong’s eyes widen the more he explains, to the point of saucers when Macaque finishes with, “And you are a king. The Monkey King.”

“Oh. Oh!” His friend jumps from amazement to delight in less than a blink. “Oh fuck! Is that true? I can’t believe I was such a genius!” Pearls of laughter form inside his lips to grace the air with exuberance. Macaque is not immune from the infectious joy.

“It’s just my running theory, Wukong. But I think there might be strength to it. Makes sense, don’t you think?” He grins bashfully.

“I don’t care about the details as much as the fact you are here and not dead. I’ll take whatever I can get.” Wukong nestles in the crook of his neck again, revelling in the skin contact now that Macaque’s arms around his own have more strength to latch on.

Macaque is unsettled by Wukong’s nonchalance. While his best friend is known for his carefree attitude, he at least would question this strange miracle like all the earthly wonders he had spent weeks on the roads to learn about, before their failed siege. This avoidance only emerges when he is deeply stressed or trying to hide something, and Macaque fears what he may find.

“Of course we need to care about the details, Wukong! If I couldn’t find a way to you for all these years and now I did, we need to reverse it so I can free you.” He frowns, trying to knock some sense into the other. “After I find a way out I’ll get right to studying these seals to break them. Heaven is sick for doing this to you.”

Wukong just keeps averting his eyes. So he’s really hiding something. After unloading his grief on the king, Macaque can’t stand to let whatever is on his mind continue to torment his friend any longer. With a gentle comb through his hair, Macaque asks.

“Wukong, where are we?”

It takes a while for the king to find his voice, but eventually he mumbles, “Another realm. They made it to be my prison. There’s no clear way in or out as far as I'm aware.”

Macaque reels back at the admission. So that’s why he couldn’t hear a single clue of Wukong’s whereabouts? The fact that Heaven did this is no simple matter. A realm needs either living things generating life or power to sustain itself else it’d collapse. Who would sacrifice such energy to maintain this many complex seals for so long?

His blood chills. “It can’t be. I’ll scout this place out to find a crack in the barrier.” He turns to make true of the claim, but is yanked back by fingers grasping desperately at his shirt.

“No! Don’t leave me!” Wukong sounds manic. He sounds scared. The claws hooked into his shirt tear holes in the fabric. Macaque mentally slaps himself for letting fear overcome the need to comfort his friend.

“O-Oh, okay. We’ll wait a bit longer.”

Wukong shakes his head. “Can you try summoning some clones instead? I don’t think I can let you go right now.”

“Okay.” Macaque reaches into the shadows of his soul and draws some of them out to pool at his feet. Though this place is dark enough to cast a ridiculous amount of shadows, the easiest to summon have always been from something familiar. They resist at first, unwilling to part from their owner so early after he has gained fatal wounds, but his command is stronger. Three clones rise up, wobbly and slightly misshapen. That'll have to do.

“You three go in different directions, take notes of any discrepancies and report back to me.”

They nod, diving halfway into the ground to shoot away. Macaque occupies himself with grooming Wukong’s hair, spreading his ears in the hope to gain more insight into this eerie prison. He also takes the chance to conjure a shadow stool for a more stable footrest.

Some time later, when Wukong’s coat looks at least a smidge shinier, Macaque hears the telltale zing of portals opening behind him. Two of the clones emerge and immediately sink into his shadow, giving him a vision of their findings, while the last one lingers. First, it scans the rock pillar Wukong is stuck in, going as far as climbing the rock to take a better look at the seals. Then, it walks to the magic circle from where Macaque arrived to kneel down, touching the outer symbols. It gives the slightest shudder, and straightens to finally reunite with its master’s magic. Macaque silently processes their memories, opening his eyes with a frown.

“What is it?” Despite his grim words earlier, Wukong carries a hopeful expression.

“This place seems to be an endlessly replicated room with this pillar as the center. My clones have travelled 2000 li from where they began, and all the scenery is repeated over and over again. The same-looking rocks, same chain positions aside from yours, even one dripping water source every 2 li. Whoever created this place has sacrificed diversity for stability, and they were smart about it. Normally the weakest link would be the line where the main area is cut off to be replicated, but I can’t find a crack at all.” Macaque sourly admits. “It’s like they took the middle of a mountain and copied it infinitely in all directions.”

Wukong’s crestfallen face chips away at Macaque’s heart. The king drops his head, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Macaque wants to break something, anything, everything if there’s a chance to make that expression go away, to stop the crimson tears in his eyes from welling up.

But he can’t do anything, and the shame eats at his soul a little deeper.

“We still have the magic circle, that might be your way out.” He tries to be optimistic. Wukong just slumps forward harder.

“No good if I can’t get out of this stupid rock, bud.”

That diverts his attention. “Wukong, do you know anything about these seals? Because I can sense something from them. The rest of this prison is made of advanced magic but the seals on this pillar have a distinct feel to them. All of these reek of different sources of magic, which means they are supported by more than one person who might not be celestials. If I can track down who they are I might be able to find a way to break the chains.” It’s his best bet. It’s his only bet. Judging by Wukong’s reluctance he must know something.

Macaque doesn’t bring up the findings that the outlines of these seals are adorned with celestial sigils just yet. The runes he saw through his clone’s eyes are familiar, some of which he remembers stitched on the edge of Azure’s cape before the lion fully forfeited Heaven’s attire and ideals. Macaque had also glanced by this kind of runes in some of Yellowtusk’s scrolls, but the most worrying thing about them isn’t the power emanating from these golden seals, possibly channeled through the sigils.

It’s the fact that the seals all have different arrangements of celestial runes, yet one of them poses the exact runes he had seen on Azure.

Beads of sweat rolling down the back of Macaque’s neck, he swims through an ocean of possibilities for a scrap of reason. Could it be that these seals are powered by Heaven's battalions, one of which Azure once served in?

Five battalions out of commission just to keep the Monkey King at bay? Isn't it a bit much? To balance the energy of so many soldiers, have them be aware of the siphoning runes etched on their own bodies at all time. It would debilitate Heaven’s forces in ways he can’t imagine the Jade Emperor would tolerate.

The seal directly in front of Wukong’s sunken body glows faintly, sizzling at Macaque’s touch. Its golden gleam unsettles him not unlike the stare of a predator aiming for his neck, the sigils on its round edge the noose to his execution.

Macaque looks for answers in Wukong’s eyes, and finds a jagged, broken man looking back.

Crushed is a fitting word to describe Wukong’s expressions. He winces almost violently at the mention of the seals, head whipped to the side, eyes screwed shut to avoid Macaque’s gaze completely. His teeth are grinding so hard that the shadow can hear the cracking, every vein visible seems ready to pop. Wukong’s thundering heartbeats are the sound of a beast rattling the bars of its cage, and Macaque is taken aback by the barely controlled anguish that slowly morphs into fury, so rarely seen on his friend.

“...Wukong?” He is lost at what to do in this situation, hands tentatively coming up to cup at the king’s face and try to bring him back. His friend is panting heavily now, ragged breaths resembling low growls crawling up from the depth of his throat, visage pulled taut in a grimace.

Wukong jerks his head harder away, almost like he wants to physically bolt from the conversation. But he can’t, so he settles for clenching his fist so tightly that blood drips from the torn flesh, teeth still audibly gritting.

It takes a long while to coax him out of his distress. Macaque holds Wukong’s clenched fist, slowly smoothing out the harsh grip to weave their fingers together. Wukong cannot resume hurting himself without hurting Macaque, too, and that puts a stop to his ongoing fit of silent rage.

All the fight in his friend seems to drain out of his body. His shaky breaths subsides into a sort of tired exhalations, head hanging low in weary exhaustion. All of him screams defeat.

Macaque leans forward so his shoulder catches Wukong’s drooping head, feeling a wetness dampen his fur. He tries again. “Wukong, please talk to me. What happened?”

With face buried in the fur of Macaque’s neck and muffled, raspy mumbles, Wukong tells him everything.

-

Macaque is rarely ever angry.

Unlike Wukong who is prone to temper tantrums and short-lived grudges, Macaque prides himself on being the level-headed one, always the calming water to Wukong’s petty outbursts. His friend has a tendency to assume offense on his behalf, and in a considerable number of scenarios, he was right, but Macaque was able to steer him toward rationality and sooth the king’s ire toward the poor souls who happened to have a loose tongue at the wrong moment. It didn’t help that Wukong’s protectiveness sometimes triumphed over his own ego, the times Macaque barely got a word in before his friend decimated the demons and celestials alike who dared to insult the warrior in his presence are proof of it. To the ones Wukong considers his troop, they are granted almost infinite compassion. To the ones outside of it, the slightest blunder might just evoke the Monkey King’s legendary wrath. Macaque deems Wukong’s hot-headedness as more than enough for the both of them, all the more reason for him to be the voice of logic.

Wukong, ever the emotional one, would seek even the most improbable excuse to justify the wrongdoings of his sworn brothers, and cling to it through the most perilous of hardships. Wukong would not lie about this. Thus, this truth is indisputable.

Anger is unfamiliar to him, but right now, his blood is boiling. Pure, unadulterated rage fills up his chest, stoked by the fire of abandonment which has been simmering for the last five hundred years. It convenes and condenses, until the searing, thick lava can no longer flow through his veins, instead making its way up to Macaque’s head, where undiluted wrath paints his remaining vision a crimson red.

The swirling disbelief and fury inside him make for a dangerous concoction, just waiting to tip over and stain everything in its path with unbridled hellfire. Macaque can barely contain the anger shaking every single one of his muscles. If he has been worried about Wukong’s earlier outburst, then his clouded mind has no place for restraint now. The meager magic core nestling inside his chest screams alongside the thrumming of his rage-torn heart, all of his life forces merging together into a white, hot ball of furor. His shadows shriek and claw at the underside of his skin, the once cool, dark shades sweltering the nearby landscape, shadow tendrils manifesting to thrash and pull everything they touch into the realm of oblivion. Macaque’s irrepressible ire numbs the feeling in his limbs, the only thing that ensures the hand holding Wukong’s isn’t drawing blood is his unwavering devotion. His other hand, however, has no qualms about relieving the most minuscule fraction of his wrath, clenched fist and sharp nails uncaringly tearing apart his own flesh, carmine liquid freely dripping from his palm, lapped up by the shadows to fuel their thirst for revenge.

The very essence of his being has shifted in this moment, and Macaque can’t wait to carve a path of destruction to get what it yearns for.

Wukong is uncharacteristically quiet, the last word of his retelling left with his spirit altogether, leaving him a broken husk of his former radiance. Macaque watches as the light in his eyes snuff out, and vows to respark it by any means possible.

He cradles what’s exposed of Wukong with trembling, bloody hands, struggling to find his voice underneath mountains of resentment. Eventually, something part human, full beast crawls up his throat, a promise and an oath uttered by the shadow, witnessed by the only two beings that matter. It is lost to his own muddled mind, but his soul understands the pledge all the same.

I will free you, whatever the cost.

It takes a long time for them to part from their desperate embrace, a whole ripped in two, a shadow separated from its object.

Longer for Wukong to reluctantly let him return to the mortal realm through the magic circle whence he emerged.

Three years for Macaque to garner enough celestial knowledge to decipher the scripts on those wretched seals.

Two years for him to make peace with what he must do.

One year to convince his stubborn, grief-stricken king.

Over five centuries after the Brotherhood’s failed siege of Heaven, the shadow realm trembles and shakes as its master rises once again, blessed by the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, hand clutching his legendary staff, to begin a hunt that will deliver his righteous wrath and break the Monkey King out of his shackles.

Repent, ignominious traitors, for the Warrior of the King has arisen.

Chapter Text

Why does tragedy exist?

Because you are full of rage.

Why are you full of rage?

Because you are full of grief.

-

After days of walking southward, the hard, dry ground of the wastelands finally gives way to the feet-sinking dunes of the Flaming Desert. Macaque doesn’t flinch at the sudden temperature change nor the scorching sand more than enough to deter any lesser demons daring to get past the Demon Bull King’s threshold under his feet, but it’s a near thing. The warrior mumbles a spell under his breath, sacrificing a bit of magic to create an invisible barrier between his shoes and the sand, relieving himself of the fate granted to those who have underestimated what lurks beneath these dunes, the white of skulls and upraised arms scattered on the road the only thing left to tell their story.

Nevertheless, every step under the blistering sun saps at his strength bit by bit, the heat hellbent on suffocating him through the flimsy layers of his shirt and armor. Macaque slightly bows toward, half due to his creeping fatigue, half to cast a larger shadow for an immediate escape. His clothes stick to his fur uncomfortably, sweat drenches his face, Macaque is grateful for the wide-brimmed hat he acquired before the journey.

The Flaming Desert may be torrid, but the simmering fire in his chest burns even greater, licking at his soul in both pity and mockery. Oh what a fool he was! Little Macaque spending five hundred years lurking around Heaven’s outskirts, praying for a crumb of his sworn brothers’ whereabouts, just to find out they have already made themselves comfortable in the mortal realm. His useless, idiotic, pathetic self should have pointed those six ears toward anywhere but Heaven long ago, and maybe all those deaths, all that loss, all these feelings would have been avoidable. His bitter laugh clogs his throat halfway, coming out as a choked noise. It took such a short time to learn of their locations too, once he deduced their general directions from the position of the golden seals - four perfectly placed sigils around the one blocking Wukong’s body, an easy map with cardinal directions conveniently stamped with familiar names in celestial script - and shifted his hearing southward to catch wind of a newly established Bull Lord of the plains.

Macaque digs his claws through the fabric of his pants, just shy of drawing blood, and forces himself to tame his uneven breathing. No need to waste strength before his destination.

A grumble emanates from his body without permission. He quells his growling stomach with a snarl of his own, reminding the organ of its place. A shadow has no need for food or sleep. It simply exists and serves, a blanket for the night’s children, a respite from the harshness of the world.

A ravenous beast preying for the flesh of those who have wronged its wards, if needs be.

The slippery sand of the high dune ahead is testing his patience, swallowing his feet every time he climbs up without using his hands as anchors, and he can’t risk bearing such a clear weak spot. With a sigh, Macaque lays a palm flat across his chest, sinking into the pool of magic residing beneath his form, grasping the core serving as his heart. He pulls, and the shadows answer, materialising the piece of metal stored where’s safest. A glimmer of gold is the first to poke out from his sternum, he holds the end snuggly in his grip, yanking out the rest with a bit of difficulty, still not used to the solid form mixing with his normally fluid magic.

A grunt escapes his lips when the last of the object is ripped out, the shadows of his essence clinging to golden shades, unwilling to let go of the familiar energy they have spent the last half of a millennium seeking. Macaque grips the altered form of Ruyi Jingu Bang in his hands, letting out a breath he doesn’t know he was holding.

While he uses Wukong’s staff as a walking stick to traverse the sandy hill, his mind begins to wander.

“Mac, that’s insane! You can’t fight them, least of all in this state. We can think of another way, please.” Wukong’s desperate plea echoes in the hollowness of the cave, easily reaching Macaque’s six ears. The shadow flinches, not daring to look into the other’s eyes from his position standing a couple zhang away. His own face is downcast, palms clenched tight in resolution.

They have had this fight numerous times ever since Macaque was able to decipher the celestial sigils etched on the pillar’s seals. They both know what needs to be done, yet Wukong’s uncharacteristic indecisiveness stalls his feet. The king would sneer and curse their old brothers for days, swearing to rip out their lying tongues if he could ever get these chains to break, then the next he would spend hours sobbing into Macaque’s scarf, asking the uncaring gods for a way out, begging the vast expanse of his prison for an explanation to their sworn brothers’ betrayal. Sometimes he would steer that anger toward the only one present, snarking at Macaque for the smallest things, criticising him for not freeing Wukong already, the Six Eared Macaque surely knew the intricacies of this magic and the secrets of its unbinding, just to immediately broke down in tearful apologies right after, pleading for him to stay and never face the perils of this quest. Macaque was powerless but to hold him through his manic episodes, whispering his own pitiful apologies in response to his king’s crazed accusations.

“They left you here to rot! How could you stay here knowing their names are carved on your chains, their magic fueling your prison? How could I stay here, your warrior undying, watching you waste away and descend into madness, with the key to your freedom just out of reach? Am I not allowed to try?” Macaque summons all his anger into his shout. His voice cracks, his breath coming out laboured. Tears prick at his corneas, he wills them away, determined to maintain at least an illusion of clearheadedness.

The sudden outburst shocks the both of them into charged silence, one baring their soul for the picking, the other forced to admit their predicament. Wukong wilts like a dying tree, drooping brows and slackened fist unable to brave the storm of truth. The air crackles with static emanating from Macaque’s fury, one that is working overtime to stir up Wukong’s slumbering resentment.

After what feels like eternity, the tense silence is broken by the king’s doleful murmur, a barely noticeable sound to anyone else, yet it pounds against Macaque’s eardrums like mourning gongs.

“I just… don’t want you to get hurt.”

Macaque softens, his feet instinctually carrying him toward his friend. A hand raises up as if to hold Wukong’s cheek before he wills it down. “I’ll be okay, Wukong.”

The king shakes his head vehemently. “Me being imprisoned is enough, what if the celestial realm comes for you too? Fuck, they already came for you! You could’ve died had I not erased your name from the books of Death! And the worst thing is that I would’ve been ignorant of it! You could’ve died and I wouldn’t know a thing.” Wukong pales, taken aback by his own words, eyes wide in horror. The strength leaves his voice at the terrifying truth of what could’ve been their fate finally brought to the open, until he has to take several gulps of air to continue. His facial nerves contort almost painfully, the corrupted clouds of his scleras start to overspill with crimson rain slowly streaking down hollow cheeks. From this distance, in the dim light of the cavern, one could plausibly mistake it for the black ink that once both etched Macaque’s name into and marred it beyond legibility in Diyu’s best kept scrolls.

His friend looks at him, searching for understanding in Macaque’s scarred and blurry eyes. The shadow is helpless against that overwhelming sincerity, an invisible force pulling his gaze up to meet the other’s and accept the entirety of Wukong’s affection, knowing what it could do, what it has done to his whole being.

“I can’t let you pick fights with them, the ones under Heaven’s command, alone. Our love, our care for each other is two-sided. I know it’s unreasonable, but please,” Wukong begs, broken and meek, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Macaque’s heart sinks. “Oh, Wukong.” He closes the last distance between them, calloused palms caressing smudged visage, wiping away stubborn liquid to no avail. Wukong’s hold of their shared gaze is steadfast despite his brimming corneas and downturned lips, adamant on showing the extent of his unfulfillable protectiveness. Macaque touches their foreheads together and exhales his own genuinity.

“Wukong, I must do this. I won’t be able to live with myself otherwise. I know the risks, and I’ll gladly take them if there’s a tiniest chance I can save you. Let me be your warrior.”

His friend’s face crumbles, expressions crestfallen in front of Macaque’s immoveable resolve. He won’t budge on this. Wukong can see him off with either blessings or curses but his departure can only be delayed for so long.

“I-” Wukong begins, then deflates under unshakeable determination. “At least let me lend you my strength. Carry my will with you into battle.”

“You have given me enough already but okay, I can find your old hat or something back home. That way I’ll remember what I’m fighting for.” The shadow’s relief brings a tentative smile to his face, the first since this argument began.

Wukong shakes his head. “Reach into my right ear,” he says. Macaque’s breath hitches, sensing the implication. Dull nails hesitantly trace the outer part of Wukong’s ear, afraid of scratching the appendage, before two fingers come into contact with a familiar hardness of metal thrumming with spiritual magic.

Macaque stammers at the offer yet to be uttered. “Can I even wield it? Aren’t you its only owner?” He has never tried to lift the staff in earnest, but stories of its stubbornness toward any master before the Monkey King came along are known far and wide. He himself had been their witness on multiple counts, after all.

His friend shoots him a teary chuckle, “And I’m giving it to you, bud. As my warrior, no one is more deserving of wielding the staff than you. Anything that’s mine is also yours.” There is so much conviction in his claim that Macaque finds himself believing it. Nevertheless, the act of taking the legendary weapon can only be described as petrifying. His fingers freeze, pinpricks gnawing at the slightest touch on blessed iron.

Spirit somewhat lifted, Wukong gives him the final nudge with a toothy grin. “C’mon Mac, pulse your magic with it. Let it feel your intention and transform to your will.”

The shadow makes an effort to calm his racing heart and do just that. Eyes closed, two claws pinching the end of the shrunken staff, Macaque pours into the pool of his magic to the point of overspilling, letting the excess energy flow outward and fill their surroundings with his intention, clashing against the staff like water ripples of a pond meeting the bank.

The humming of spiritual magic, keyed to the core of Ruyi Jingu Bang by one of the only two beings who naturally possess it, sticks out like a sore thumb amidst the waves of fluid shadow magic at first. But then, when the tides pass by and retreat, the undertone of Macaque’s innate spiritual energy is the thing that resonates against the gold-banded rod, beckoning its power as the closest thing to its beloved wielder, a request to borrow its strength to one day reunite it with its true master.

He should’ve anticipated it, but the vibrancy of Ruyi Jingu Bang’s response still shocks him into palpitation, its consent so potent and enthusiastic the staff might just jump into battle right there. Macaque almost laughs aloud. Of course, how could he ever think anything, anyone on this earth would not share in his love for the most wonderful being that has ever graced existence. How could the world not give all its might to aid the Monkey King? The staff pulses and swells in his meticulous grip, until Macaque can grasp its body firm, channelling his own magic into the metal.

Macaque opens his eyes to the key to Wukong’s freedom, a weapon in sync with his soul, an instrument tuned to the song of liberation.

The two gold-coated ends of Wukong’s prized staff bathes the dark cavern in sparkling radiance, the familiar glow chasing away the last of the bitter cold which has been clinging to him since his first resurrection. Macaque can only gape, wide-eyed, as the iconic carmine of the staff’s body gradually morphs into a deep black with a purple tint, shadowy swirls crawling up and settling in along the shaft, announcing its admission of the temporary wielder. The dark shade of its body, instead of clashing horribly with the light on both ends, gives off the irresistible aura of a black hole, the immense power pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeats.

Macaque can only describe the feeling of holding the staff as- empowering. He feels… big, unstoppable, invincible, as if a flick of his finger could clear ten miles of adversaries, as if a slam of this staff could raise him to the tallest heights of the universe, where he could seize the stars and alter planets to his heart’s content. The magic coursing through his nerves to the rod ampliates like a mallet to a temple bell, the ringing of its reverberation audibly echoing in the hollow cavern, colliding against stalactites to the point of shaking.

The weight feels right, not at all heavy like the tales nor the few times he touched it in the past. This Ruyi Bang fits in his palm like a well-used tool, flexible like another limb, just on the right side of density to execute the perfect sweep. Is this what Wukong always feels when he picks up the staff? Macaque can understand his possessiveness toward the legendary weapon now. Maybe not Heaven-challenging level of arrogance, but this can at least make him daring enough to question the gods.

Macaque is broken from his trance by Wukong’s twinkling laughter. “It likes you, bud!” The bell-like sound carries joyous merriment across the space, the sharing of his beloved weapon no less jovial than the clinking of cups. The shadow blushes at the king’s exuberance, knowing in his soul this acceptance exceeds far beyond simple favors but rather a communion of kindred spirits the likes of which he may never experience with any other.

He opens his mouth to respond, “I guess Ruyi-” but the words coming out sound wrong, scratching at his throat. This is no longer the famed staff serving the Monkey King’s naive folly, but something both greater and more contained, a companion for the warrior on the daunting quest ahead, resonating with the full of his conflicted mind. Wukong, his ever confidant, seems to understand his internal struggle.

“Guess what, I think a new title is in order. Something grand to fit the occasion?” He hums, tilting his head to the side.

Macaque ponders hard about it. “Suixin Jingu Bang. That’ll do the job.” The name rolls smoothly on his tongue, a nice cadence to its syllables. The weapon pulses its own approval.

“The Acquiescent Gold-Banded Staff huh? I think you will make good use of it.”

Slowly but surely, a smile finds its way onto the warrior’s lips. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Macaque gets to the top of the dune.

From his vantage point, he has a clear view of the land laid before him. Miles and miles of sunkissed dry sand stretch on seemingly forever, the yellow of the sand and light blending and blinding his retinas. Macaque squints, leaning on Suixin Bang a bit more to combat his weariness.

There! Just shy of the horizon, something stands out. A red dot, mere speck at this distance, but he knows it will certainly be a massive fortress once he gets close. Rumours of the Bull Demon’s domain come with tales of his impressive troops, those of which cannot be housed in anything less than a heavily reinforced bastilion. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t encountered any scout this far in, and Macaque has long stopped believing in his luck.

His big brother is waiting for him.

Eye narrowed, Macaque gives his staff a generous twirl, stretching out his muscles. He slams it down with a little more force than necessary and resumes walking.

-

The Demon Bull King stands in front of the Flaming Fortress, just as predicted.

Even before Macaque reaches the elevated, flattened hill where the Flaming Fortress resides, he can already hear the steady heartbeats and the slow huffs of a demon king at rest amidst the thrumming of thousands of soldiers’, formidable aura demanding respect from miles away. The shadow has much time to mull over this fact as he climbs the last steps leading to the Fortress’s entrance, feeling eyes following his small frame from the windows of the multiple posts situated around the hill. Why this quietness? Why this leniency? Does his old sworn brother look down on him so much that the news of his arrival means little to him? Did he think he could send Macaque away with his tail between his legs, just by a stomp of his hoof?

The answer reveals itself as he crosses the gate into the forecourt and comes face to face with Brother Ox.

The forecourt is a thing of beauty. Large expanse of tiled floor stretches on for a li at least, lined by strong walls dotted with lanterns, giving more than enough light even after sunset. The imposing palace towers over it, making clear the power its owner holds. This must be the place where the demon king’s army assembles before battles.

The Demon Bull King stands tall and stately in the middle of the yard, blazing eyes staring straight ahead. The famed giant axe which has followed the king through countless battles hangs securely behind his back, letting the end of his purple cape flutter in the desert wind. His hooves gleam black, his fur well groomed, proud posture screaming power and self-assurance. His old sworn brother’s complexions glow impossibly bright at the sight of Macaque, arms immediately held wide in jovial greeting, a booming voice filling the empty space between.

“Brother! We meet again!”

Whatever the Bull King has in mind about Macaque’s supposed reaction, it all screeches to a halt the second their gazes truly collide.

Years later the warrior might ask himself if it were the seething in his eye, the baring of his teeth, or the staff clutched tight in his hand that had notified his estranged brother somewhat of his intention, but for now none of it is more important than the twisted satisfaction in his guts as he watches DBK’s face fall, taken aback by his glooming presence.

“Indeed,” Macaque hisses. “It’s a shame that I’m not here to talk.”

-

The first clash of Macaque’s staff against the hastily-raised cheek of his brother’s polished axe makes a resounding CLANG in the vacantness of their battleground.

DBK lets out a grunt, more from surprise than effort as the bull barely has to brave one foot to bear the brunt of his aerial strike, a move that speaks volumes of the gaps between their powers. One half-dead, half-mad shadow against the most battle-hardened member of the Brotherhood even before the Bull King made himself known in the Flaming Desert? The dullest of creatures would still know he’s brazenly walking into his death.

Good. In all the ways he has envisioned their confrontation, in no scenario Macaque imagined himself walking out alive at first try.

“Macaque! Listen to me!” His oldest brother cries, and the shadow finds himself almost giggling at the absurdity of it all. What else has he been doing for the last five hundred years and more?

Macaque vaguely feels his hat being blown away, revealing his full face as some of that mangled glee bleeds into his speech. “Listen?! You want me to LISTEN?!” Macaque must look deranged right now with the way he can hear the blood vessels in his eye pop. “Oh I'm sorry I couldn’t hear you betraying Wukong on Heaven’s ground. I couldn’t hear you carving out a place for yourself in the mortal realm with your love, basking in the eternity Wukong had promised ALL OF US. I couldn’t hear you over the sound of our people dying, our home getting burnt to ashes by Heaven’s armies while you were busy building your own! And you still want me to listen?!”

“Let’s just say it’s centuries too late for that, brother,” he spits out the once-endeared term with as much teeth as he can muster, eye honing in his own image reflected in DBK’s dilated irises. What he sees fuels his strength. Macaque uses the momentum of his staff to cast aside the blade of his old brother’s axe, leaning his weight further onto his right foot to stamp on the Bull King’s chest.

This time, DBK does stumble. The bull gets thrown back several zhang before his feet stabilise him, leaving skid marks from both his hooves and the blade of his axe, the demon coming to a stop not without a wheeze.

DBK raises his head to look at him with pain in his eyes. Macaque hopes the sight of his own ruined eye reminds Brother Ox of his discarded oath.

“This was not what I wanted! I- I thought we could reverse it, trust me when I say I would never go back on our oath to each other!”

“You expect me to trust you when all evidence proves otherwise?” The tendrils of shadow at the base of the forecourt’s pillars and walls hiss alongside Macaque. The snarl on his face gradually morphs into the shape of a grin as his expression gets darker. “Brother Ox, you know full well there’s one way to reverse the seals. The only way there is. If you truly intend to fulfil our duty to each other, you already know what to do.” He adds, just to drive the point home, “Is this not what you wanted?”

The sunset spills its last drops of crimson hues over the ground of their long-awaited reunion, casting warm tones over the purple fur of his oldest brother. DBK is still as his head tips down, shrouding the storm swirling in his mind behind the shadow encasing his gaze and the grim set of his jaws. Something unknown and incomprehensible growls at them from the shade of the looming fortress, eagerly waiting for the death of day to finally come out and devour the light emitting from the torches lining the walls, plunging the earth into true darkness.

After what feels like too long a pause, Brother Ox looks up, straight into his eyes, and utters out the firm end of their brotherhood.

“I can’t, Macaque.”

Unintelligent mumbles fill the backdrop of their stilted conversation. Demon Bull King shivers as he realises the growing noises come from everywhere. Behind him, around him, under him, he is unnerved by a creeping sense of wrongness. A chill cuts across the layers of his armour the moment he registers them as laughter. Shadows pool out of corners and crevices to snuff out the lonely torches, crawling to his feet to envelope the body of the warrior, making him twice as large, thrice as deadly, highlighting his left eye with a stark purple glow. Macaque opens his mouth and the other is surprised at the way black has filled his form inside out, his canines lengthened by condensed darkness.

Shadowy jeers and mockery tempt the king to unfocus, yet the sight just some zhang before him has the demon transfixed, infested by something close to fear.

The sun with its last moment on earth has framed the thing in front of him in a halo of blood-red brutality. Macaque is more beast than man, more shadow than light, chaos barely contained under ebony shell. With every syllable dripping from the inescapable cavern of his throat, the air gets more suffocating, the dark more consuming, gravity surging and turning on him to pull the Bull King down, making his feet impossibly heavier.

“Then you have chosen your fate, Demon Bull King.”

The earth shakes as their weapons meet for the second time, the titles paving their path utterly decimated under the force of impact.

The third collision sends a shockwave that knocks down the walls and rattles the fortress. The gate behind him crumbles like sand.

The fourth swipe of tar-black claws rips through heavy armour to draw blood from a purple-furred chest.

The fifth swing of an axe-

The sixth-

The seventh-

.

.

.

.

.

When Macaque has finally lost all the strength to get up, the sky is still reigned by a lone moon, deprived of the warmth one seeks on cold desert nights.

For all its fame as the Flaming Desert, one can almost forget its nights are not exempt from the chill.

Whether the full moon’s light has chased away all its companions in an effort to paint the earth a crisp white, or Macaque’s clouded left eye has long forfeited the sight of the stars, he is not sure. His battered body is too busy feeding itself on the muffled whines each movement gives. He lays on his back, gaze unseeing, wishing to blink the soft imitation of the sun into his eyelids. There is a dampness escaping his flesh to infiltrate his lungs and wet the ground beneath him. Macaque breathes in, slowly and almost steadily, familiarising himself with the concept one death at a time.

The weary footsteps coming his way brings him a muted comfort. His skin tingles under the fur too matted to puff up, waiting for the heat those palms once generously left behind along tousled hair. It’s been so long since he was last petted.

Haltingly, the silhouette of his old sworn brother enters his vision, blocking moonlight to drape his lain form in the shadow of a crouching bull.

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he rasps in response. The shade casted by Brother Ox makes it difficult for him to gauge his expression, yet Macaque feels like he can make out something salty in the air. A stream of moonlight rolls down the bull’s face.

“I know. I’m sorry about that, too.” DBK’s reply is a choked thing. The thud of his other knee hitting the ground jostles Macaque a bit, the axe has long been discarded, its handle sticking up lonesome from where it’s been planted on the ground somewhere behind. “Little brother, you will be remembered as the greatest warrior the Demon Bull King has ever fought.”

The king takes out a dagger from the sheath hanging on his belt, the curved blade a homage to the crescent moon. If Macaque still had the strength for it, he would laugh. His brother can’t bear to finish him off with the bold edge of his axe nor the blunt stomp of his hooves, both of which have become his signatures on the battlefield. He guesses there is something special about him, after all.

His eyelids flutter weakly. He’s so tired. DBK holds the dagger high, not aiming for his throat. Macaque wonders if his brother can strike the exact once-wound beneath his meager chestplate.

That line of thought is cut off as the blade is brought down. Agony invades his mind for a moment before that too, slips away.

His last conscious moments are embraced by a trembling warmth. Macaque smiles, making himself comfortable as he yields to the tides of sleep.

-

The second time Macaque sets foot into the forecourt of the Flaming Fortress, he is greeted by a haunted expression.

DBK stands ghastly still, face frozen, eyes wide and fixed on the small stature of his little brother, whole and bearing the same simmering anger as he did barely two weeks ago. The grip on the axe swung over DBK’s shoulder slackens until it slips from his hand, hitting the ground uselessly.

“It- it’s you,” The demon king lets out a disbelieving gasp, fur standing on end at the sight of him - the greatest evidence of his shameful past - rematerialized. It seems that the king was in the middle of retiring to his chamber when the wisp of shadow was detected on his territory. He must have thought he’d be facing another bold trespasser or worse, an imitator based on the familiar use of magic. Macaque hasn’t left him enough time to examine further, his shadows carrying him straight to his big brother’s doorstep the moment he reached the edge of the Flaming Desert. As a result, none of DBK’s troops are summoned from the nearby posts. Nevertheless, they will be woken by the impending battle soon enough.

“Brother, we meet again,” Macaque grins, taking pleasure in the way his old sworn brother looks at him like he has seen a ghost.

“How is it possible? I watched with my own eyes your magic being reclaimed by the void, your body returning to the earth. I killed you with my own hands. I mourned you with my whole soul.” DBK’s denial comes out as a breathless wheeze. The king takes a step back as Macaque takes one forward before he realises what he’s doing and secures his stance.

“I won’t stop until I fulfil my oath,” Macaque says in lieu of an explanation, not risking his chance with the only advantage in his arsenal beside Suixin Bang.

They stare at each other for a long, long time, ideologies clashing in the form of an unblinking battle. It feels like hours have passed in the span of mere minutes when DBK finally breaks the silence with a mighty stomp forward, seemingly giving up on reaching a middle ground. “No matter. I will once again deliver you to earth.”

The forecourt, whose walls are yet to be rebuilt after their last face-off, begins to boil on command of its king’s resolution. Lines of lava-red magic flow like quicksand just beneath the surface of white tiles, the heat and glow combined scorching away the dark. In no time at all, an intricate magic circle comes alight under their feet.

On cue, the ground bursts into flames.

The shadows nested inside Macaque writhe violently at the searing heat, dancing scarlet sending his mind barrelling right back to the barely-buried memories of loss and shame. The shade wants so badly to run, run, far away from the reminder of his incompetence, to escape the blistering fire licking at his scars. Macaque instead hardens the stance of his feet, forcing his body to stop its minute trembling, yanking his mind out to resemble a proper shape.

This is exactly why he decided to confront Brother Ox first.

The Monkey King’s warrior reaches into the cornered shadows of his soul and summons his iron will. Suixin Jingu Bang answers his call, darkness rushing to envelop his arms and retreat, leaving the transformed gold-banded rod in its wake. Macaque does a full-body twirl with the staff, the move banishing the fire circling around him even if only temporarily. He feels the warm power coursing through his veins, and lets it stretch the corner of his mouth into a smile with too much teeth.

This time, it’s a swing of his brother’s axe that severs his life.

.

.

.

.

.

Days turn to nights turn to days, the seasons vaguely shift. Their fights continue, again and again and again.

.

.

.

.

.

On a sunset not unlike when it all started, in the middle of another battle in the Demon Bull King’s domain, however long after the initial encounter has already been lost to his muddled mind, he knows his biding has bloomed its buds.

His old sworn brother, once a boisterous king rivalling Wukong in spirit and ambition, looks tired. Slumped shoulder seemingly droops lower from the weight of the worn battle axe slung over his shoulder, grim face carrying the laden weariness of a man haunted too long.

Macaque’s aware that he’s not faring any better. Pain has buried itself under every inch of his well-battered body, the ache settled deep into his bones, a dull, persistent throb that seemed to resonate with every heartbeat. Each inhalation dislodges his broken ribs further, each exhalation steals some of his energy and vision along with it. Eye and mind clouded, he feels the blood trickling steadily from the slash on his left side and winces. His knuckles are turning white from the way he’s holding himself upright with only the grip on Suixin Bang, the tingles from the force reverberate outward to amplify the gushing wound.

His ears catch the leaden breaths drawn by DBK, who has heaved the axe down to serve as a crutch. Macaque has a feeling it’s more of the emotional toil that exhausts the bull king, which is why he’s not surprised when the king begins to speak.

“You were my sworn brothers, Macaque. You still are.” The shadow doesn’t have to strain his hearing to catch the solemn voice of his once-kin. Nevertheless, he chooses to keep his silence, focusing on the relentless wave of agony coursing through his own body.

“I would’ve gladly done what it takes to free him, had things been different. And yet I find myself unable to fulfil our oath. How cruel it is, that love is the strongest force I have ever known,” he says. Despite the heaviness of the conversation, his eyes start to brighten with a fondness unbridled as his gaze lifts up in reminiscence.

“Retained, restrained and waiting for my punishment, I found love in the form of the same ruthless maiden who had subdued me during battle, now visiting my prison. She caught my eyes upon the first clash of our weapons amidst our foolish siege, and that infatuation only grew the more her gales drew blood. I was wholly hers when the time came and Azure proposed his terms without consulting any of us.”

Air billows out from DBK’s nostrils, the grinding of his teeth a cushion compared to the next words he grits out, “I was outraged, rightfully so. His offer not only was a clear disgrace to our brotherhood, but also went against the very sense of justice we had blindly rallied behind him for. And yet once Heaven got a sniff of his wretched docility they wouldn’t accept anything less.”

Regret clear in his demeanor, his brows furrow. “I wish I could say that I had killed that bastard right there, in that pompous throne hall for all of the celestial realm to see what makes of traitors and liars in our Brotherhood, but the chains held strong and they- they caught on. They knew of me and Princess Iron Fan, and they threatened to bring her doom for the unforgivable crime of loving a demon. The much more tolerant punishment was in fact Azure’s proposition: the four insurgents split, each holding a link to contain the most powerful fighter. Princess Iron Fan would come with me, banished forever from Heaven’s grace yet safe and unwatched.”

“I fought, little brother, believe that I raged,” DBK recounts mournfully, “whether publicly or in confidence, I was plagued by it. My Princess gave me the full right to decide. Neither of us was afraid of dying, but my love for her was stronger than death. So I let them brand me like cattle and release me down to earth, never to cross them nor the invisible barrier cutting me from reaching you.

My Princess reassured me that we would find another way, a technicality to slip out of Heaven’s cruel contract as her cousin had once managed. I never stopped searching. But such a feat requires collaboration, and my ties to those three have been severed the moment they fell silent in the Hall of Divine Mist, further trampled on by their nonexistent effort to contact for the last five hundred years.

So I tried to entertain myself while waiting for change. With Princess Iron Fan’s wits and our combined might, the Bull Clan was unshakeable. I was proud to give her the recognition and power she deserved, even more so when she in return, brought to the world our greatest gift, our son, our firespark, so delicate yet with so much potential. For the first time in my life I felt like I was holding the universe in my palms.” The Demon Bull King takes a deep breath, like relearning that fact all over again. His right hand comes up to rest on his chest, where his heart and magic core rest under.

“Red Son has so, so much latent power, we knew it would be a problem in his young age shortly after we discovered the fact. He can’t control it yet, and the cracks in the vessel manifest as sickness and fragility. As shameful as I am to admit it, our most precious treasure is also a weakness to exploit. Demons have attempted to seize him, either to avenge their lost territories or to take over the Flaming Desert.

As a father, a husband, I am bound to protect my family. To lay my life down easily means I have failed.” And for the first time since his monologue, DBK looks straight into Macaque’s eye, intending to sway him with his full honesty.

Macaque wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to yell something foul, something to relieve the most miniscule bit of the anger overspilling his soul in waves. Who should he respond to this as? The Warrior seeking justice? The Shadow clinging on to a gentler past? The Six Eared Macaque, always understanding, always yielding to the whims of giants?

“Were we not your family too?” is his quiet reply.

DBK flinches, but he isn't done yet. Laboured gulps of air accompany his rising grief. “Were you not the first to find our shores, to promise us protection, to tie our souls in brotherhood? Did we not share our joys and burdens, did you not comfort me when Wukong started to venture far? Didn’t you call us brothers?” He continues, the dam of emotions in shambles against the currents of anguish. The stature of DBK blurs by the seconds.

“Did you not really care? Or worse, did you once care for us, but not enough?”

And that’s really all it boils down to, isn’t it? Under all this bloodshed, all this rage, is just a little monkey desperate to find his big brother, to be assured things will turn out fine, to have an old, frayed promise fulfilled. Yet here they stand on each side of an ever-widening chasm, two adversaries staining their hands with blood, two antagonists in the other’s story.

In the face of Macaque’s accusations, the Demon Bull King seems to have become mute.

Macaque finally laughs, a bitter, broken thing. He swings his staff, and meets his end before the next hour rolls over.

-

It goes like this: Macaque, drunk on adrenaline and newfound cruelty, asks, “You have an army. Where are they?”

DBK only tightens the grip on his axe to counter the onslaught coming his way. “This is a matter between brothers. I don’t need strangers to step in on my behalf.”

“What about your wife and kid? I ought to introduce myself properly, don’t you think? I’m itching to give Red Son my blessings and all.” The devious smirk on his face only serves to make DBK scowl.

“They are in the fortress, where they are safe. I need not to endanger them with this.” The king huffs, but a dart of his eyes tells Macaque all he’s been looking for.

There it is. Macaque knows. Long before Brother Ox’s confession, since the first time he heard of the Bull Clan in the Flaming Desert, tales of Princess Iron Fan’s prowess go hand in hand with the kingdom’s expansion. Yet she hasn’t been present for a single fight between the estranged brothers. Even from this distance, the Fortress reeks of sealing magic - temporary but not a single thread out of place. Macaque hounds in on that information.

“If I didn’t know any better, brother, I’d thought you married a lily-livered lady. Or maybe she’s just another one of those maidens, fit for cushions and smooth silk? If so, I don’t blame you for trying to keep her coddled.”

The rubbled ground beneath DBK’s feet pulverises from the rings of fire bursting outward under his heels, the Demon King fuming at the sacrilegious suggestion. His voice bellows through the desert.

“YOU SHALL NOT SPEAK OF HER THAT WAY!” He roars. “She is stronger than you’ll ever be and you will never lay a single bloodied finger onto her dress!” The conflagration in its abruptness has picked the flesh of Macaque’s right hand clean, threatening to burn away at his limited regeneration to devour his arm before Macaque amps up his barriers. He offers a melting grin in response.

“And yet you lock her behind wards and seals. Tell me, brother, is confinement your language of love? Do you make a habit of entombing those you hold dear? Then the pleasure of laying waste to your poor excuse of a family once I get past that gate will be even greater. Hah! I will definitely make a note to savor it.”

If the previous outburst was scorching, then the tempestuous inferno erupting right now is downright hellish. The ground cracks open as fire whirls wreck what is left of the yard with its destructive energy, the howls of wind complementing the furious figure at the center of the maelstrom. Macaque can’t see past the scarlet spirals, but the routs and the straining of earth his ears pick up are more than enough to fill in the blanks. He barely manages to avoid getting swallowed by the sudden cliffs formed from the magically-altered terrain, the platform rising in the middle of the battlefield disturbing the evenness.

When the raised ground has surpassed the peaks of the smaller fires, Macaque looks up to see the famed War Form of the Demon Bull King has announced its presence. A gargantuan purple bull rears its head toward the sky, its curved horns the most terrifying pitchforks to any adversary the king has ever faced. A simple stomp of its front hoof sends a shockwave toppling Macaque ten zhang backward. The gigantic War Form shakes its head and the last of the day clouds disperse, leaving the reigning sun to cast away shadows. The earth stills on its axis as the bull’s white eyes lock onto Macaque’s minute form.

The fur on his back bristling, Macaque feels utterly exposed bearing the full weight of DBK’s gaze, whose sheer aura threatens to crush him right where he stands. There is nil recognition in those blazing eyes now, only the pure, primal instinct of decimation driving the War Form forward. And the first target has already been set.

Macaque plunges Suixin Bang into the rubbled ground beneath to brave against the billow of smoke emanating from DBK’s initial huff, then lunges to the side just in time to evade being trampled by massive hooves. He weaves under DBK’s feet, using the bull’s casted shade and size to his advantage, dodging the blasts of fire shooting out from its mouth, while calling forth spikes of shadow surging toward its belly. With his staff, he strikes at its joints in an effort to topple the bull sideways. The staff clangs soundly against hardened limbs, yet try as he might, the shadows are far too malleable to pierce the Bull King’s condensed essence.

Having enough of his pestering, the War Form bellows out a mighty roar. On cue, a ball of light manifests directly under its figure, right in front of Macaque’s nose. He has two petrifying seconds to stare at it before the tiny sphere explodes, casting rings of flames blasting Macaque out of his shadowed refuge. Macaque is thrown violently onto a jutted rock once serving as the foundation of the forecourt, falling unceremoniously on his stomach to cough out a clump of blood.

Macaque doesn’t let himself close his eye. He shakily gets on his knees, both hands gripping Suixin Bang like a lifeline. The cuts on his forehead are bleeding profusely, though that is preferable to the scenario in which his face gets blasted off because of a magic shield that comes too late. His right palm has just finished regenerating, the process becoming faster the more he learns to ignore the ache and itchiness in between. Nevertheless, it’s still too unstable to wield the staff. Macaque switches Suixin Bang to his left hand, standing up with a calculating glint in his remaining eye.

So his shadows alone are not enough to damage DBK, but the spiritual energy imbued in the iron rod is capable of that feat, the darkness contained between gold-coated ends having somehow transformed itself into a substance more solid than celestial diamonds. This will be the key - the main weapon in his offense. He just has to find a way to utilize it.

An ear-splitting hooffall commands his attention. Macaque glances ahead to see the gleaming eyes of the Bull have once again fallen solely on him. The War Form paws its right foot in preparation of a charge, nostrils puffing sulphurous smoke.

An idea comes to him, risky and arrogant. The staff in his hand thrums as if sensing his thought and resonating with the kind of half thought-out strategy so familiar to its true owner. Power flows freely from the iron rod to the warrior, fueling his confidence. Macaque doesn’t stop the fanged grin hiking up the corner of his mouth.

Darkness pools out of the blackhole-like body of Suixin Bang, drenching his feet in liquid shadow. Macaque glides across the ground impossibly fast, not a motion required from his feet to surmount the various craters and rifts on his way to the Bull King. The War Form raises its hooves, ready to trample him once he gets in reach, but Macaque is quicker, zig-zagging in time to rush up giant limbs, all while leaving lines of shadow trailing behind him. The Bull roars in frustration, but the warrior continues undaunted, making his way across purple flesh with his shadows not unlike a purposeful artist on a canvas.

The pitch-black strokes begin to alter their state, turning themselves into ribbons of shadow wrapping around the Bull’s limbs, pulling its head down to the attachment points rooted deep in the earth. DBK bellows out his anger at being restrained, ebony bandages ripping then reforging rapidly to hinder the reared horns. They cannot hold him down for long.

Macaque doesn’t make the mistake of relying on those bindings either. The stage has been set, the time window shortening, he shoots himself out in front of the bound War Form, bouncing off a cliffside to come barrelling right back, heading straight toward its head with Suixin Bang poised ready to strike, the shadows aiding his jump, the trail cutting open the air to leave behind a curtain of night.

Like the flag of a liberator, he soars through the sky.

. . . . . .

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

It ends like this: Demon Bull King, ex-insurgent of Heaven, ruler of the Flaming Desert, guardian of the celestial seal which hold the Monkey King capture, and Macaque’s once-sworn brother, lies defeated on his home court, wheezing painfully as his lungs struggle to draw in enough air.

In a perverse reversal of the first time Macaque died under his brother’s hands, Macaque trudges his way toward the lain form of the bull demon. The adrenaline coursing through his veins is steadily abating, his strength thinning by the second while the throbbing of his well-battered body returns tenfold. The limping in his left leg further irritates the raw feeling of his scorched right palm clutching the staff, each step indirectly pulling at the barely healed skin. The deep cut on his forehead has ripped its way past his eyebrow, blood trickling down his right eye. Macaque makes a point to be grateful that at least it can’t impede his remaining vision any more than the killer headache he’s having at the moment. If he dedicates another smidge of his attention to the agony he’s enduring, there will be another body on this ground.

One of DBK’s horns has cracked, the other’s fractured halfway. Macaque has gotten close enough to see the way his chest rises and falls raggedly, a stutter in each descent betraying his dwindling lifeforce. Clawed fingers twitch occasionally, whether due to the lack of strength or the broken arms that inhibit his movement is unclear. The dirt where he lays tastes strongly like the inside of Macaque’s mouth.

DBK directs his half-lidded eyes toward him. He’s two steps away from DBK’s head now, with only his stubbornness keeping him upright. Macaque numbly stares back. He can’t muster up the will to appear self-satisfied.

A shaky inhale. “So we’ve gone to this.”

Silence.

“Despite what you said, brother, I know you won’t harm my family. I know your heart.” A terrible cough wracks through him, followed by an exhale that's longer than the next breath in. “As I once knew you.”

His brother’s breathing gets more shallow by the second. Macaque’s hand trembles while it pulls out a knife from the sheath attached to the bull’s hip - the same knife which has brought him under at the end of their first reunion. It’s a sharp, dangerous thing, longer than his arm but to DBK, perfect to serve as a light weapon. Macaque climbs on his brother’s chest, grasping whatever tattered armor he still has on.

Knees too weak to remain standing, Macaque straddles the bull king. With this closeness, he can feel the warmth seeping out of scarred skin, sense the way damaged lungs strain under the additional weight. His ears catch the rustle of a wheeze and the rattling of ribs. His eye, keen, peers through demon flesh to reach the waning magic core just shy beneath a quelling heart. He raises the knife above his head.

Demon Bull King smiles. “Out of everyone, I’m glad it’s you, little brother.”

The night is quiet. If it bears witness to the flow of tear streaking down a monkey’s face as his big brother exhales the final breath, it has no mouth to speak aloud.

-

Macaque limps his way down the path leading away from the Flaming Fortress. He’s on a time limit, already hearing the seals placed on the fortress and soldier stations cracking from the inside - howls of gales chipping away at invisible walls, now without his brother’s magic to sustain themselves. Hell will break loose once they crumble, and Macaque wants to die on his own terms this time.

A glance. His right hand is still holding the curved dagger, the staff having bled itself back into the pool of his shadows. Macaque contemplates his next move.

The decision to go after DBK first has been one made while soaked to the bone in anger and grief, his jagged soul demanding revenge for the greatest betrayal. But he has to be smart now. His ability to resurrect himself will reach the ears of the others with enough time, and so he has to curb their attempts to find a way and counter it at the source. The one with the most knowledge about these matters…

The warrior’s gaze hardens, resolution swelling. Yellowtusk it is, then.

Goal settled, Macaque grips the handle of the dagger tighter, bringing it level with his chest. The blood on the metal hasn’t dried off, carmine droplets falling intermittently. His skin tingles, anticipating the familiar. He thinks of ginger fur and red eyes.

The blade carries him home, light as clouds.

Chapter Text

And, at last, can grant a name

To a buried and a burning flame

As love and its decisive pain

Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

-

The currents of darkness pulling him through the curtain separating the realms are as dependable as ever. Macaque has long learnt to untense his muscles and let the shadows do as they wish, welcoming the dark essence pouring in to fill the cracks his battle wounds have left behind and replenish his body with what they count as vitality.

The shadows are neither cool, like how Wukong has commented the various times he traveled through them, nor warm the way mortals may describe the earth where the shadow of an object left in the sun still soaks in the heat. To him, they are compatibly lukewarm, a temperature so congruous to his own Macaque more than once finds himself wondering where his skin ends and the darkness begins.

Are the shadows guided by their conductor, or is he merely one of the chords?

In all the years before his first death, Macaque hadn’t found the answer to that question. Now, though, an inkling of what lies beneath his skin dances in the peripheral of his focus. It would be so easy to follow that line of thought, to grant his younger self the assurance of knowing himself. To finally learn of his place in the grand picture.

Macaque breaches the surface.

It doesn’t feel like swimming, despite his efforts to think of it as such. The sensation is akin to the pouring of water from one vessel to another through a paper filter, with himself being the liquid. Passing through, but always leaving behind something in the process.

One moment, his arms are shadow-drenched, a gob of sticky shades clinging to the earth as he makes the motion of raising them, then just in a blink of his heavy eye, the tar-black flesh poses a sun-tanned shade once again.

Macaque blinks twice, and the joints on his right hand pop as he flexes it. He tiredly brings that same hand to his forehead, tracing the outline of a jagged, throbbing scar. Time to wake up.

Hoisting himself up after each resurrection is an art he’s still in the process of perfecting. It’s familiar yet different, the constant muddled mind and limbs that feel both too heavy and too light making him flail not unlike a newborn, paired with the renewed aftertaste of killing blows on his pristine body. No matter how hard the hits were delivered, how deep the wounds cut through his sinews and muscles, how bruised and battered he was before the final strike, Macaque reemerges on the other side just as whole as the first time he embraced death. Unmarred, unmutilated, bar the blind eye and the two scars leading him to Wukong, every revival is a preserved image of the day his being changed irrevocably.

That restoration only pertains to his exterior, however. Underneath mended skin, the pain lingers like ghosts, invisible gashes pulling at his movements and phantom aches haunting his bones for hours afterward, whispering voices that coerce him to lay down, lay still, like a retired warrior on cold nights longing for true rest.

The act of rolling over and getting on all four becomes a well-acquainted dance. Limbs trembling, he sucks in a botched breath as his intact ribs dig into uncrushed lungs, coupled with the sharp sensation surging from the nonexistent slash at his hairline disorienting his perception. Macaque resists the urge to shake his head, knowing it’ll only make it worse. He pants greedily, drools falling from his tongue while he tries to convince the organs of their function and reassess control over his physique.

His stomach bubbles, throat itching, the shadow feels the distinct impulse to retch. He isn’t sure what might come out.

Minutes that seem like hours have passed before Macaque can trust himself not to keel over at the lightest raise of head. Taking another hefty gulp of air, he uses the momentum of inflating his lungs to sit back on two legs, palms spread flat on his thighs for additional support. He wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his left hand, finally looking up for the first time since his arrival.

Like the first rays of sunlight heralding spring on still-frozen earth, Wukong’s warmth reaches him instantly and thoroughly, already working its magic to thaw away layers of pain and doubts. Their gazes lock readily, lifetimes of practice having engraved the action into their core instincts, waning moon rushing to meet the twin suns of parhelion at twilight. From this distance - two zhang between his summoning circle and Wukong’s rock pillar - and maybe even miles apart, his mind supplies, none of his best friend’s radiance is lost at all.

Wukong is, still, the most wonderful being the realms have ever known.

The moment the king registers that his lucidity has fully returned, Wukong’s eye crinkles morph into a beaming smile, a face impossibly bright showing off his happiness at seeing Macaque again. With a voice mindfully quiet to not agitate Macaque’s sensitive hearing further, a skill he has honed per his warrior’s unspoken request, Wukong whisper-shouts out a barrage of joyful greetings, enthusiasm undiminished even after countless reunions.

“Mac! Mac! You’re back!”

Wukong’s delight is the sound of laughter, the colours of flying kites, the taste of fresh fruits helped down with cool stream water on warm summer days spent chasing each other across mountain peaks. It’s the sort of knee-trembling, pulse-pounding exhilaration that leaves you both breathless and alive and Macaque welcomes it avidiously, no more posturing against the irresistible pull is left after centuries of deficit. The shadow puffs out his eager chest, spreads his ears wide, and lets his heartbeats be kickstarted, the drumming starting out unrhythmically before catching on and syncing with the lively thumpings two zhang ahead. With every call of his name uttered, the throbbing nested behind his ribcage becomes surer, firmer, blood pumping through invigorated nerves. A true smile blooms unbridled on his face, cheeks hitched up to meet the underside of his wrinkled eyelids, a heady flush engulfing his features. His mind is only occupied by one single thought yet it leaves no gaps between the borders.

He’s home.

“Hello, Wukong,” he rasps back fondly, smile still evident as he moves to stand up on unsteady feet, making his way toward sunlight. His left leg screams in protest but the phantom wound fades like drowsiness at midday, the initial limping quickly discarded and then he’s skipping, leaping up the last steps conjured from shadow to meet Wukong eye-to-eye, crashing against his face clumsily with his snout, latching on with both hands wrapped around his head.

Wukong giggles at the unintentional tickling, turning to press his nose to the underside of Macaque’s chin before humming against his shoulder. “D’ya miss me?”

Macaque only nuzzles harder. Wukong laughs openly, the boisterous noise cut off by a startled squeak when Macaque nibbles his nose in retaliation. The king ducks his head to escape hungry fangs, then licks a sloppy line across his exposed collarbone.

Now it’s Macaque’s turn to shriek. The shadow jerks back with half a mind to leave Wukong hanging as payback, but the moment he’s about to scowl, Macaque is hit by his best friend’s best weapon: the puppy eyes.

Sharp, piercing stars at the hearts of blood-red pearls, Wukong’s eyes are far from the usual definition of sweet or harmless, yet Macaque finds himself endeared all the same. It’s still his best friend, those wide, round eyes, now sparkling, staring at him with a kind of affection he’s still not sure he deserves. That lovely mouth just on the edge of a pout, the tilted head, ears that droop in a show of false innocence Macaque has been well familiarized with but yet to grow immune to.

“I really missed you, you know?” Wukong says, a hint of melancholy slipping in between words, the sound descends in volume toward the last syllables, fond eyes never straying from Macaque’s.

No matter how frequent his visits are, it never feels like enough. The warrior softens immediately, moving to touch their foreheads together, a palm cupping his cheek, the other clasped in Wukong’s right hand. “I’ve missed you too.”

The coil of time loosened in each other’s presence, Wukong buries his face in the crook of Macaque’s neck, breathing in deeply as if he’s the one worth being coveted. The king melts into him further when Macaque’s claws start to card through his hair, picking out the dust gathered since their latest grooming session.

The soothing motion lulls their heartbeats down to a more steady pace, giving the tendrils of what has transpired since his last visit the chance to creep into his mental plane. The memory of his final confrontation with DBK comes rushing back, toppling over his peace of mind like a grain of sand before a tidal wave, the weight of what he has done and what he must continue settling heavily in his gut, dragging along his spirit. His eyebrows pinch, mouth on the verge of a grimace.

How can he break the news of a loved one’s death when he himself is the murderer?

Turns out he doesn’t have to, for the realm begins to shake at that moment. Precursed by a series of miniature quakes that quickly rises in volume, the whole cavern thrashes violently with the way the earth trembles down to the atoms. The tremor transfers to Macaque and the pillar, making the warrior stumble forward, the shadow stool he’s standing on dissipating, his head missing Wukong’s to collide with the hard ground, eliciting a sharp cry. Macaque would’ve responded to Wukong’s alarmed calls were it not for the start of an agony much greater.

The vibration wracking through the dimly lit cavern doesn’t just stop at the ground. Any and all stalactites and stalagmites are clattering, thousands of rock foundations clanging carelessly against each other, some broken from the force, some completely collapsed, the scene not dissimilar to the bowel of a beast convulsing. Each and every terrible sound snags on Macaque’s eardrums like fishhooks, all six sensitive appendages flayed out for an unending dissonance of stone grinding and resounding collisions to be stuffed in. Macaque’s gritting his teeth too tightly when he vaguely tastes blood, the reverberation pounding his skull in excruciating bursts. The shadow whimpers pitifully, curling in on himself with both hands clutching his ears in vain to block out the pain, the cacophony ambushing him while he’s still too weak and unsuspecting.

Macaque gasps, short-winded, as the noises filling the cavern quieten. His head rings in alarm, inexplicable intuition warning him this is just the calm between storms. He unstitches his sewed eyes just in time to see one of the four bulky chains wrapped around Wukong’s pillar - the one plunged into the earth, carrying a golden seal with DBK’s name carved on the border - rattle, the intensity forming cracks where it connects with hardened stone.

He watches, transfixed like a thrall, every shake of celestial metal through his eye slowed down to milliseconds. The glowing chain gleams unbearably brighter, to the point where the seal becomes a ball of white-hot light, the chafing of magic barely contained within blessed iron fracturing the surface. The vibration lessens in amplitude but grows in frequency, until Macaque, half-blind and dazed, can only rely on the echoing buzz to conceive a glimpse of what’s happening.

Crack

BOOM!

Macaque screams at the exact moment the seal explodes with a deafening sound. The shockwave created from the unleashed energy shakes the whole realm in its ferocity, knocking over dozens of rock columns and stalagmites. The flare topples Macaque backward, next to a fallen stalactite just shy of impaling his throat. But none of it registers to the warrior, who is experiencing the worst pain he has ever endured, being almost in contact with the seal when the blast took place. It’s as if an axe has been brought down upon his head, splitting his skull into a thousand jagged pieces. Waves and waves of agony crash against his eardrums, resonating throughout his body and completely debilitating any control he has over his limbs. Macaque’s gripping his ears so tightly that he knows something has been torn, but the spasms taking over his muscles leave him no choice, his nerves set ablaze by a ceaseless fire. He feels like all of his organs have been cleaved.

Choking on his own spit, the shadow can only writhe helplessly through the inexorable torture.

Sadistically late and hauntingly pervasive, the pain comes to an end. Macaque’s breathing stutters as it tries to refill his depleted lungs. His throat, his skin, everything feels raw and exposed. The shadow inhales a mouthful of air, almost gagging on the coppery liquid flowing down his pharynx.

Groaning, he is finally able to unlatch the deathgrip on his ears with a hiss, his fingers coming out stained red under the nails. Macaque unscrews his eyelids and cranes his head up, wobbly vision zeroing on what remains of the explosion.

In front of him, what was once an unbreakable celestial chain lies broken, several shattered links rendering the construct useless. The ever-glowing light emitting from the chain has been snuffed out, the metal without power now seems more fragile than rusted iron, looking easily crumbled by a press of hand.

But what draws his attention the most is the seal, the cracked seal. A long, big tear runs across the surface of the round, gilded ward, splitting it into two uneven halves. The main symbol in the middle of it - a sigil mockingly resembling a lock - has also been fractured. Macaque can see with his naked eye the raw magic spilling out of the ruined seal, pooling around the earth where the broken metal rests not unlike a golden cloud dispersing into pale white smoke.

The air seems to still, the only thing moving is the slow crawl of glimmering fog.

A glance upward. Wukong, with his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, looks stunned. His friend just keeps staring at the scene below him, at the shattered chain, the cleaved ward, the magic that helped shackle him just a few moments earlier, now loose.

Hesitantly, as if yet to break out from the trance of disbelief, Wukong’s eyes rise to meet him.

“Mac?” he whispers, like anything louder will crumble this reality. “Is that- Did you-?” he falters, mouth dry, unsure of what to say, what to ask, wholly relying on Macaque to untangle his scrambled thoughts.

Macaque can’t do anything but nod, sluggishly sitting up. His ears are still ringing, his head hurts like hell, only the bobbing of his throat keeps the ball of dread firmly in his stomach. “The first seal has been undone.”

The nigh impossibility confirmed does little to soften his friend’s wrinkled brows. Wukong quietly asks, “Who?”

“Demon Bull King.” Macaque’s answer is a sombre thing, daring not to utter the familial title that often accompanies their once sworn brother’s name. His eye darts to the side, avoiding Wukong’s gaze.

The silence that drapes upon them is well-anticipated. Macaque clenches his fists, nervously waiting for Wukong to absorb the news.

Will he understand? Will he grasp that Macaque’s only trying to obviate the burden of reluctance sure to hang above their heads if he had left DBK for last? Can he recognise the guilt exuding from every one of his stilted breaths, for hiding his expeditions from his king until the first foe has been slain, and discern it from Macaque’s determination to not be dissuaded? Can he fathom Macaque’s own rage at such betrayal from their oldest brother?

“...I see.” Wukong’s murmur pulls him out of his spiral. Macaque snaps his one functional eye toward his best friend at the dull reply. A monkey as emotional as Wukong accepting such news so easily? Macaque can’t believe his ears.

The sight that greets him quickly dismisses the notion. Wukong’s lips are quivering, the downward tilt betraying his distress. His corrupted eyes are more glassy than usual, the sanguine seas of his scleras threatening to drown out aureate stars with the way his cheeks are hitching up. Macaque can hear the rapid palpitation of Wukong’s heart being forced down by controlled breathing. He’s trying not to cry, the warrior dumbly realises.

Having doomed himself to the preservation of Wukong’s happiness forever long ago, Macaque’s limbs move on their own, shadows growing another platform to raise their master to Wukong’s level, shaky arms rising to once again cradle his friend’s face with his palms, careful not to stain him with the dried blood stuck under his nails while Macaque wipes away the moisture gathering at his canthi.

Tongue-tied, he can do nothing but offer his presence. Wukong still hasn’t looked at him, resorting to staring morosely down at the broken seal. Macaque positions his head so Wukong can hide his face in Macaque’s shoulder.

He feels, more than hears, Wukong’s hitched breaths and the faintest of sniffles. The fur on his right shoulder dampens through the thin fabric.

Macaque tastes salt on his lips. It takes a minute for him to realise it’s from his own tears.

When their silent mourning dies down, it is with a wet chuckle. “I don’t know why I’m like this, really,” Wukong says, “Wasn’t this what I ought to expect when I agreed to let you go?”

“You could never be prepared for this,” Macaque replies, the tightness in his throat persevering. “You could never see him as the first to go down.”

His friend exhales, long and heavily, deflating further. “You didn’t tell me.”

The shadow almost flinches, a pang manifested in his chest alongside the guilt. Wukong’s voice drags him out before he can wallow in it. “You knew I’d halt you.”

Caught yet understood, he sighs back, “...Yeah.”

Despite his relief at Wukong’s empathy, the guilt in him doesn’t shrink much. His king, one so free, so careless, should never have to be in the position where he finds reason in this act so quickly.

Wukong places his chin on Macaque’s shoulder blade, molding his head into the gap. His breathing sways the long strands of his dark hair, the warrior having neglected his personal grooming during the hundreds of years withered from his best friend’s absence. Macaque in turn grazes his fingers on the curly locks bunched at Wukong’s neck and cascading down the length of the rock pillar, stopping where his stomach would be.

Half a millennium apart, and they still manage to mirror each other.

“Well, I can only guess who will be next, and after that it’s only getting easier, isn’t it?” Wukong pipes up, a joke lacking mirth his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. His chuckles never sound more forced.

Willing to play along, Macaque snorts, “And how are you sure about that? Peng could have been my favourite all this time. Maybe I’m saving them for last because I can’t bring myself to pluck those gorgeous feathers.”

This time, Wukong laughs aloud. “Hah! As if! I’m surprised you didn’t go for them first. I know the guy got on your nerves.” If he could reach his eyes, the king would be wiping away tears of amusement. Macaque grins against his hair.

Voice back to quiet, his friend continues, “I also know this must weigh on you just as much as it does me. We each had our guy, but one thing for certain, Brother Ox was our favourite, wasn’t he?”

To that, Wukong already knows his answer. As the first to seek out their island and introduced them to the idea of fraternity, he who broke fruits and shed blood on the shore of Flower Fruit Mountain as offerings for the earth to witness their vow of trilateral protection, DBK is without a doubt the one they both look up to. Wukong may prefer the high praises of Azure’s buttering, and Macaque the grace shining through Yellowtusk’s sophistication, but at the end of the day there is something lasting in the bull’s presence - spirited yet versed enough in worldly novelties to impress the Monkey King on their adventures, while more than blessedly comforting in his gruff compliments to the shadow’s often overlooked aid.

His breath hitches. All of that is lost to the war and his own hands, now.

At the reminder, Macaque’s knees buckle under the weariness slowly worming its heavy fingers back into his joints, sagging against his only friend. The shadow platform he’s standing on rises a bit taller, accommodating his need for a seat. Macaque sits cross-legged on it, reluctantly taking his eye away from the pillar behind Wukong to finally look at his king.

The sight before him makes his heart ache even more. Wukong’s eyes are puffy, the crimson smudges on his cheeks giving him an even more messy complexion. Wukong blinks as he uses the back of his hand to rub out the red streaks, the king unconsciously chasing after the contact.

Desperate to lift his heavy brows, some of Macaque’s tendrils scramble to bring forth a shadow bowl, the sloshing water inside gathered from the dripping source some li away, a regularity in any of his visits. No earthly matters beside himself can be brought to this realm, but at least he can relieve his friend’s parched throat.

He raises the cup to Wukong’s lips, an unspoken offer which the king accepts. Wukong gulps down the steady stream until the cup is half-empty, looking at him expectantly - a request extended back. Macaque finishes the rest with a sigh.

He touches their foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing in the familiar scent while Wukong does the same. A quiet revelation slowly sinks into their minds.

There’s no going back from here.

-

When Macaque emerges on the beach of the Flower Fruit Mountain again, the sky is a cloudy grey, the earth is covered with snow, the air is still - almost dead - in the midst of true winter.

Nevertheless, he inhales a lungful of ocean breeze, holding on to the sharp stings of coldness poking at his airway. The waves before him lap lazily at the shore, white foam blending in with the snow-blanketed sand. Not even a hint of brown sticks out from beneath the thick layer of snow.

He turns, and is met with a lump of ashen wood protruding from the frozen ground - a fallen tree burned and snapped halfway. Macaque traces his hand on the exposed wood of its trunk, letting the splinters prick at his fingertips.

He knows this tree - knows it intimately - the memories of warm summer days resting under its shade with Wukong still dance in his dreams on nights he spends shivering under threadbare fabrics. His hand falls, gaze pointing up once more. It’s hard to distinguish the time of day from the dullness of the sky, but at least it lacks the stark black of the evening.

His feet start to move, carry him one by one heavy step up the path to the mountain.

The hike to the Water Curtain Cave is a quiet one, with nary a sound elicited from the snowy landscape. Blackened trees dot the blinding white canvas, bony branches barren of leaves or life - even birds hide their wings from the chilly air. It’s as if the world has stopped, leaving Macaque the only occupant wandering through its endlessness. But the shadow knows better. Under the surface of frozen streams is the slow crawl of water flowing from the largest waterfall - his destination.

Macaque arrives at the entrance of the cave, the unforgiving wall of water welcoming his presence like he has never left. Shaking off the snow gathered on his head and shoulder, and the frost collected on his eyelashes, he steps through.

Once inside, his eye finally sees what his ears have heard miles away - piles of monkeys fast asleep, snoozing through the blandness of winter. Macaque walks, light-footed, past the sleeping monkeys to the higher, inner part of the cave.

The wooden door that greets him at the end of his walk is dark with age, carefully enchanted from rot hundreds of years ago. The latch, however, is dusty and dry, making a grating screech when he opens it. Macaque steps past the threshold, into a room long left alone.

The stone floor of the room is cold to the touch, littered by various blankets and pillows straying from their home - a large net near a small carved out window. A wardrobe, a mirror, and a nightstand with a lone comb on top are similarly covered in a thick layer of dust. Macaque stops at the edge of the ruined nest, looking down at the remains.

Two pillows lie in the middle of the nest, one having bursted from a slash, spilling some of the feathers. Under them is a piece of red fabric. A thin blanket, maybe a former tablecloth that a curious king has swept away for its softness from a human’s home in one of his trips to the mainland, a thousand years in the past.

Everything is just as Macaque left them hundreds of years ago. With his trembling hands and drumming heart, he crouches to pull it out.

The sheet is neither heavy nor stuck, yet his legs give out mid draw, sending him stumbling on his butt with the cloth draping over him. The slightly stale smell of old fabrics hits his nose full force, but that’s not the reason for the tears welling at the corner of his eye, nor the way his nose scrunches along with the rest of his facial muscles. His grasp on the blanket tightens, fingers clutching the bunched cloth just shy of puncturing holes into the fabric.

He hugs the blanket close to his chest like an old friend, sitting on his calves and leaning forward to shield it from the world, nosing the cloth to look for traces of an ancient preservation seal embedded into the fabric by a distraught younger him - a lost warrior freshly escaped from the armies of Heaven, a lone demon monkey coming home to an empty bed and the fading scent of his other half.

His desperate bid to hold on, hold on, hold on to a semblance of control and familiarity couldn’t last forever - no seal can outrun the passage of time infinitely. And when the final ghost of his scent fled from the locking ward, a night roughly two centuries after the failed siege, the warrior’s grief swallowed him whole into a fit of despair that sent him reeling and running from the trashed room, never to come back from that point onward. The guilt and the failures keep him firmly outside its door, barred from comfort.

Until now.

There are no remnants of the seal anymore, just as its use came to an end centuries past. The thought doesn’t frighten Macaque as it would’ve. Instead, he wraps the fabric around his neck, fashioning it into a cape that falls down to his ankles, replacing his shorter bandana.

His eye catches on a rip at the edge of the cape - another casualty of his past failures.

No more. Never again. The borrowed power of Wukong courses through him, channeled and drawn out with mutters of enchantment. Safeguarding from tears, from fire, from dampness, from grime. The token of their bond transforms into a shield rivaling armour in the sense of protection it brings, shrouding his body in a warmth nigh burning. Every rub of soft fabric against his neck a caress, every brush on his fur a playful touch of hand. Macaque chokes on rising elation and falling tears, gripping the sides of the cape to hug himself more tightly with it, a wet laugh bubbling from his throat. His head spins, drunk on the optimism of a restored purpose. Wukong, Wukong, Wukong.

Macaque feels near bursting from the way relief and strength are filling up his chest, pushing him to his feet to let out the excess energy. The shadow stands, following an ineffable call to get somewhere. Rushing to the door, his good eye catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. A figure cloaked in flowing red, golden eye glinting and certain, strides long and unfaltering. Who Wukong would’ve been, will be. That though spurs him on, puts more weight on his steps to the point some of the monkeys in the wider cave are startled awake. A few baby monkeys scramble to follow his hurried pace, hooting loudly and clambering on his shoulder, curious of his wide grin and short-winded pants.

They break from the waterfall like a carp turned dragon, his toes landing on a rockcliff to propel his way up, one, two, three jumps and then meeting the river bank on top of the waterfall. Macaque cushions the infants with his body, their small forms tucked close to his chest, before rolling upright and running. His footprints on the snow become lighter, until he almost glides with how fast he’s sprinting, the path ahead opening up for its chosen protector. He can feel it now, how the sliver of connection between him and Wukong’s realm has thickened to a rope, the trickle of power turned stream. Invigorated, he coaxes out a monkey clinging to his chest, holding her level with his face by the armpits.

This is one of the infants born after the Fire, to a rare pair of survivors after Macaque came back to the mountain. Her given name bears no spiritual protection, not with how drained the warrior was, but that will soon change. Macaque looks into her black, innocent eyes, letting the flow of golden power enter her small body through his fingertips. His whisper of a Name comes out breathy from the sprint, yet the magic announces itself like a roar.

“Your name- It’s Chūn!”

The monkey chirps, fur fluffing up at the sudden acquisition of magic - not too much for her mortal, little body, but enough to mark the unassuming monkey under the protection of a powerful demon to anyone who will cross paths with her from now on. The tiny boost will also grant her immunity to minor curses and ailments, a trait normally only bequeathed to higher members of demon tribes, but given freely by Wukong to any of his subjects. Chūn’s complexion literally glows, the liveliness overtaking her features more than befitting her name. Macaque laughs, releasing her to pick up another monkey hanging on his neck, then another, then another.

“You’re Huā!”

“And you- Xuān!”

He repeats the process, grabbing and renaming monkey after monkey on his way up the mountain peak, his triumphant laughs after each successful attempt raising his spirit to transcendent heights. There’s no draining exhaustion, no shaky limbs, no anguish plaguing his body and soul like thousand times past, just the pure, unadulterated joy of accomplishment. More and more monkeys pop up to scamper after their warrior, a growing horde of brown, grey and black weaving through the snowy landscape with Macaque’s rich red cape at the front, making a ruckus echoing all over the mountain, not unlike a paintbrush of Life finally gracing its vibrant colours on a blank canvas.

In no time at all, they reach the top of Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque skids to a stop, his breaths coming out in misty puffs of air. There’s still some distance between him and the peak of the cliffside, where the catalysts of their tragedy were foreseen - the place at which Wukong first set his gaze toward Heaven, the point from where Macaque noticed Erlang’s final hunt for his head.

The nagging fear in the back of his mind resurfaces, whispering insecurities into his ears and warning him to stay away from where he’s easily detected. You cannot change the past, it croons, how dare you stand to be here?

The monkeys’ chittering quietens, unsure eyes peeking out from behind Macaque to look at him for guidance.

Steeling himself, Macaque silently makes the last steps forward. The monkeys stay back, their young minds observant enough to catch on the sense of respect this place is worthy of.

This cliffside is not only important to him, after all. The beating of his heart stills momentarily, the organ threatening to sink to his stomach just as each time he walks past the neat rows of wooden markers on the lower left side of the cliff - where lie the dozens of graves Macaque has dug for the bodies he could salvage from the wreckage of their home. After weeks- or was it months?- most of the corpses had deteriorated to the point of unrecognition. And yet Macaque has carried them, one by one, holding their small bodies close to his chest before leaving them to rest in the shallow graves all the way at the top of the mountain, where he hopes they can still take in the beauty of sunrises on Flower Fruit Mountain each morn.

The process had taken weeks- there were so many of them- but the worst thing about it was not the exhaustion nor the fear of another havoc at celestial hands hanging over their heads. No, it was the fact that the bodies he found were no match to the actual number of deaths there should’ve been. These dozens of tombs are nothing compared to the thousands of missing little ones when he claws his way back to the mountain from the shadowed pathway between realms.

The snow comes up to his knees. The larger headstone in the middle of the makeshift graveyard - a memorial - stands rooted in its spot, but it might as well be carried on his back with how heavy it weighs on him.

Macaque takes his gaze from the burial site, staring straight ahead at his destination. He circles around the familiar stone platform, coming to a stop at the furthermost spot on the cliffside. The sky and earth blend into one, the utter whiteness of his surroundings is almost suffocating in its languor. Macaque - the lone red dot - feels for guidance and is answered.

The lax hands falling dumbly at his sides tighten into fists, then open into clawed palms. He reaches for his core and doesn’t take his time before plunging in. With a decisive motion, Suixin Jingu Bang bursts forth from his chest in a satisfying golden arch.

The glowing staff in his hold is more solid than ever, the strength it demands and bestows upon its wielder has always manifested in dazzling incandescence, now coupled with a cosmic attraction. Only the mighty and the worthy may bear this gift, for a lesser being would’ve been consumed in the black hole of its power. Macaque knows this, and he knows their plights are the same. Their mutual need to retrieve the King has molded their wills into one piercing, deadly shape and with it, they shall triumph.

Macaque crouches low, takes a deep breath in, and uses the muscles of his back and arms to swing Suixin Jingu Band with all the strength his body possesses. The staff spins, slow at first but quickly picking up speed, gleaming ends forming a halo then shining brighter with each whirl until he finds the radiance painful to look at.

The uppermost point of Flower Fruit Mountain lights up like a beacon. At the center of it, a shadow stokes the flame. Macaque grasps the middle of Suixin Jingu Bang and with a shout, he slams it down, down, down, past the covers of snow, through the layers of grief, the tip of his sharpened mind meets the earth and going further, burying itself into the cracked soil.

The world is shocked into silence by the chiming sound of celestial metal upon contact.

Heaving, Macaque zeroes in at the spot where the staff disappears into the snow. There is a sense of trepidation as he waits for the mountain to recognise its king’s magic. Both him and the staff have changed so much, so profoundly, could it have thinned the connection in the five hundred years they have been apart?

As if to nail home the foolishness of his doubts, the staff chooses that moment to explode in a blinding light, the flare creating a great gust of wind billowing his cloak and utterly disheveling his hair. Macaque would’ve been blasted backward had it not been for his grip on the weapon. His arms jerks, instincts urging him to shield his face, yet the warrior keeps his hands firmly on the golden-hooped staff, squinting through the show of power.

When the supernovas in the back of his eyelids dim, what startles him is not the rush of magic boldly permeating his body, but the suddenness of warmth. Macaque opens his eyes to the sensation of sinking, his legs wobbling on their gradual descent and then his feet are touching the ground - the true ground beneath previously pristine snow. The heat surprisingly does not come from the staff but rather the earth below, quickly melting white snow into a dirty brown, then puddles, then dry ground. He almost jolts at the way he can feel warmth emanating from the revealed soil through the soles of his shoes. It’s as if the earth is not only warming up but also taking in the moisture to nurture itself.

His gaze is slowly taken off the immediate ground beneath his feet, following the green of sprouting grass spreading from where he stands. Macaque watches, awestruck at the return of greenery to Flower Fruit Mountain after centuries of bland springs and harsh winters. The circle of simple grass widens in front of his eye, verdure shooting up like emerald blades to crowd his boots, grass tips glistening with pearls of water that wet his pants at the knees.

A tug at his cloak. Macaque turns back to meet the curious face of a baby monkey, one that is cooing at him and a sight she has never witnessed in her years being born after Wukong’s capture. She looks even smaller like this - engulfed among tall grass which has grown to the height of ripe rice.

The shadow hasn’t had time to answer before an older, more immortal one suddenly appears, loudly slamming into her and consequently him with what could only be the force of an excited monkey - since when do these little ones emerge from the inner caves so boldly? The abrupt weight at his legs sends Macaque falling backward, back hitting the staff still sticking up staunchly behind. More and more sounds of hooting attract his attention, the shadow looking up to waves of monkeys big and small swarming the end of the cliff, every single one of them carrying joy and sparkles in their eyes, jumping and rolling around to play with the grass field newly formed. Some of them are shrieking at the sky and somewhere farther off the cliff. Macaque follows their enthused gazes, turning around to see-

Green.

Shades of vibrant green flood his vision, fresh and screaming greens overtaking the lands below, former skeletal branches now lush with leaves, thousands of green torches lighting up the hills and valleys of Flower Fruit Mountain, cushioned by grass beds stretching all their way to the beaches, where the blues of the rivers flowing from the waterfall, the sea and the sky join them to make a lovely azure.

Once he gets past the overwhelming greens and blues splashed generously on the land ahead and above, his eye catches on dots of colours - delicate pinks, bold reds, mouth-watering yellows and oranges. Fruits and flowers of all plants and all seasons are popping up plenteously, rife and ample in their promise of satiation. This has never happened before, even at the height of their mountain’s abundance. Birds of all feathers freely flock and roam the sky, their wings airy and warmed by the golden rays of a sun having forfeited its cloudy coat.

Macaque watches, slack-jawed, as Flower Fruit Mountain eagerly revives itself to greet its king’s magic.

Like a tidal wave approaching shore, a sensation of fullness washes over his entire being. His lungs inflate, his heart swells, the tightness in his chest returning tenfold. His ears are stuffed to the brim with the noises of chittering monkeys, the shuffles of worms, the sounds from any and all animals on the island shaking off their winter slumber, and the groaning of the earth as life continues to burst forth from the loose soil of its womb. Yet all thoughts have escaped his mind, leaving it empty aside from a dizzying sense of relief.

Macaque, light-headed amidst the vastness of what’s laid in front of him, falls to his knees soundlessly. His back hits the staff, leaning on it like an anchor as he commits the sight to memory. His hands are shaking so much, every nerve in his body is in vibration. This is what he strives for, a taste of what he may achieve. Macaque thinks he might cry.

A monkey - Chūn, enters his vision, crawling into his lap and cooing softly. Macaque gently picks her up, holding her aloft on a background of the mountain’s clear sky. Something wet falls from his eye to nourish the soil further as he releases his whispers into the crisp spring air, the choked, reverent sound joining the joyous harmony of hoots and chirps from the Monkey King’s subjects echoing across the mountain.

Oh little ones, our King shall rise again.

Chapter Text

Do you love your neighbor?

Is it in your nature?

Do you love a sunset?

Aren't you fed up yet?

Do you have enough love in your heart

To go and get your hands dirty?

-

“How did you become brothers with Azure and Peng?” Macaque once asked, back in the old, old days of the Brotherhood.

He and Yellowtusk were alone at the table, in the open cave at the midway of Flower Fruit Mountain where Wukong often hosted the banquets for their sworn brothers. It was late in the afternoon but not yet night when the others had raced out to the forest some li away for a spontaneous hunt - a good-natured dare between Wukong and DBK that had shortly evolved into a competition with Peng’s ever so helpful taunting and flaunting of their own prowess. As such, Azure had taken it upon himself to accompany the three boisterous hunters, acting as both the unofficial judge and the rein to keep them from decimating the local wildlife, leaving Macaque and Yellowtusk at the cave to occupy themselves.

To be honest, the hunt shouldn’t be a problem for Wukong. With his mostly vegetarian diet Macaque guessed the stone monkey would just opt to bring back a piece of the largest beast he could find, conveniently eliminating another one of their tribe’s threats.

The other two however, Macaque mentally grimaced. By sunset he’d better have set out enough space and tools to butcher the ridiculous amount of game they’d drag back for the feast tonight. Just thinking of the stench made his nose scrunch. Maybe Macaque truly had gotten soft in his years learning to indulge himself with Flower Fruit Mountain’s bountiful harvests beside Wukong and his subjects.

A contemplative hum from the elephant interrupted his train of thought. Yellowtusk wasn’t looking at him but rather the scenery outside the cave mouth, where the others had disappeared off to. His wise brother had made this spontaneous break into an opportunity for a deep cleaning of his weapons, so his giant mallet was propped up in front of him - and thankfully not on the rickety wooden table - with the handle sticking up and leaning on one of his thighs. Large hands were idly running a small towel over the long handle of the mallet, polishing an already spotless tool.

Macaque with his shadows couldn’t exactly mimic him, instead he had been pulling out some of Wukong’s more harmless looking artefacts from the vault to look over and brush off the dust. There was currently a small collection for him to pick out on the table. One power-draining sword here, another sealed coffer he was still in the process of studying there, then a cup capable of conjuring liquid according to the holder’s wishes in his palms. To the side, there was a golden peach which he wasn’t sure possessed any magical quality at all, so there was a big chance it got in the vault purely because of Wukong’s crow-like tendencies.

Occasionally, Yellowtusk would ask him about the artefacts, or they would share what each of them knew of the magical properties stored in the items, the ex-celestial possessing a seemingly endless well of knowledge on all topics. It had been a peaceful lull since their last exchange about a soul-trapping lamp originating from a kingdom up north, found and kept by Macaque before his time in Flower Fruit Mountain. Both of them had settled into the comfortable silence, the shadow pondering new ways to utilise the lamp based on Yellowtusk’s explanation on soul theory before getting sidetracked by a sudden curiosity.

Macaque looked up to Yellowtusk, catching his expression. His eyes were soft, the downward tilt possessing a hint of reminiscence.

“I suppose we haven’t shared our tale of sworn fraternity, despite the many times yours were recalled. My apologies, though having your first meeting as a fight between demon kings that shook the region must be much more interesting than ours.” The elephant nodded to himself, an audible exhale through his nose betraying his amusement.

Macaque blushed at the reminder that Yellowtusk and the others had remembered Wukong’s slightly exaggerated retellings of the first time Demon Bull King encountered the monkey duo. The bull king had been searching for the infamous Monkey King who had been terrorizing the neighbouring dragon kings or so the rumours said. Instead, what greeted him when he set foot on the shore of their island was a tiny monkey proudly confirming his title. DBK’s initial disbelief had quickly morphed into genuine surprise at the show of force the monkey king displayed when met by DBK’s unconvinced guffaw, weapons clashing for twenty bouts without pauses. The bull king was about to summon his War Form in the heat of battle when an unexpected hit from a spiked staff broke his left shoulder, the warrior concealing himself and rising undetected from the enemy’s shadow.

Temporarily taken down and aback, DBK’s incredulous stare upon catching Macaque’s scowl had instantly made a comparison between it and the grin on Wukong’s face, quickly realising that the toothed smile bore no maliciousness but rather an overexcited thrill, a feeling mutually felt by the bull at the presence of a matched rival. The scuffle therefore shortly ended with a hearty laugh from DBK, the demon finally accepted Wukong’s title, complimented the Monkey King and his warrior for giving him a satisfying fight, then asked for a tour and a rematch in good faith next time he visited.

It had taken three more fights, a dozen new craters on the beach, a cleaved rock foundation in the nearby waters, and no less than half of the island’s coconut wine stash before DBK pitched the idea of a sworn brotherhood. They had formally declared it on the beach - the site of their first meeting, with a clear view of their property damage - a broken rock Wukong was still in the habit of pointing at every time he flew past it these days.

Macaque’s serious expression back then was sometimes brought up by DBK when he got drunk enough, pleasant chuckles at the sight of such a severe frown on a monkey whose height didn’t even come up to his hip. It shouldn’t bother him, but Macaque somehow still hadn’t found a way to get over his deep-rooted aversion to being perceived.

It seemed like Macaque was also in a reminiscing mood today, because he was once again jolted from his thoughts by Yellowtusk’s deep voice. The elephant leaned back on his seat, letting out a soft sigh. “Ah, the profound more often than not blooms in the midst of the ordinary. You all know we were once celestials, each of us holding our own position, all cogs in Heaven’s great machine. I, specifically, was an official in the Ministry of Works, overseeing the constructions, maintenance, and resources of the domains I was assigned to.

Days after days I diligently worked, crafting blueprints for new lands in the mortal realm, making trips to examine their progress, evacuating valuable artefacts for study and safeguarding. I had earnestly believed what I had been doing was contributing to the greater good, for the betterment of all the realms. Yet something gnawed on my conscience, only subdued by the constant flow of work. Until I met Azure.”

Yellowtusk took a pause before continuing. Macaque didn’t know why, but his ears caught on the minute pickup of pulses in the elephant's chest, how his lungs inflated just the tiniest bit larger. Macaque in turn sat up straighter, putting aside the lamp he was holding to hang on Yellowtusk’s every word.

“It was a feast whose cause has long been lost to me - just another one of Heaven’s countless reasons to indulge in its eternality. I was not important enough to be offered a seat at the main table but my presence was still expected. Comfortably lounging at a corner of the Hall, that was when I was approached.

He introduced himself as a warrior, a reductive term for I knew a mere soldier couldn’t have been permitted on those grounds. Nonetheless, it was enough for us to start engaging in formal small talk, trading stories about the places we had both visited during our missions. Thinking back, it might have been my subtle frown toward the dancing guests, my conflicted gaze toward the tables of food piled high, or my swirling, untouched wine cup, but Azure saw through me.”

“Oh, but he didn’t say anything right there,” Yellowtusk chuckled fondly. “If he had, then my knee-jerk reaction would have refuted anything that went against the Jade Emperor and what I had been following for hundreds of years just on principle alone. It took us three more feasts before he prompted anything that might challenge my beliefs. Could’ve been a bit sooner, but I’m glad for it all the same.

His first question was, ‘Is there something that’s been bothering you?’ His second was a simple prompt of what might have run through my mind after pointing at the spilled wine and the discarded food by the officials attending the feast - invaluable fruits trashed for the sole crime of being dirty, and that was enough to light my first spark of defiance. His third, was a request to accompany him on a trip to the mortal realm - just the two of us in disguises travelling to a kingdom built on one of the lands designed from my blueprints.

I must admit I had never gone out of my duties to examine them after creation, aside from the basic tests of the soil and energy to ascertain their capability to nurture life onward. But that day, mingled among people of all ages and classes, something like revelation took place.”

Yellowtusk’s hold on his weapon loosened just a bit, his hands pausing their motion.

Outside the cavern, the sun had set, the last shed of light gone from the hollowed part of the mountain prompting the magic infused in the lanterns hanging around the cave to activate. One by one they flickered alight, bathing the place in a warm atmosphere.

Yellowtusk’s pupils seemed to glint, the earthen tone reflecting on his skin nicely while he was just as absorbed as Macaque in his trip down memory lane.

“Humans are so weak, their bodies fragile, their lives fleeting, yet their endurance knows no bounds. I have watched generations of them growing, working, leading quiet lives burdened by harsh conditions and strict rules that condemn most of them to unending strife. I had once thought that was the nature of mankind, to suffer as a god-given fate forever.

But somehow, in the darkest of regimes, I witnessed something incredible. The commoners who had put up with too great a tyranny decided to make a stand. They rallied under shadowed grounds, appointed new leaders, raised rudimentary tools and tattered flags. They marched to the capital with scythes and picks clutched tight in calloused palms, singing in hope to uphold their spirits and sharpen their farming tools against imperial soldiers. Many of them fell. Most of the first wave didn’t come back.

But the sacrifices were worth the fight. In due time the tyrant got caught, the barbarous kings ripped out of their thrones. The heartless, the coward, the lascivious and the greedy got banished and discarded. Once I saw it I could no longer ignore it. Time and time again, when the ruling class had taken a decline in their willingness to serve the people, the citizens would rise to fix that wrong, to establish more just and capable leaders. Like a snake shedding its old skin, humanity moves forward by leaving behind the stubborn and the corrupted.

It got me thinking if the same should apply to Heaven. The celestial realm has been stagnant for millions of years, its emperor turning a blind eye to its wards. We may be immortal, but could that eternal life have dulled our instinct to be revolted at injustice? To fight for a better, more compassionate ruler?

It was the final thought that pushed me to accept Azure’s offer and joined his secret resistance, where I met our brother Peng. Together we vowed to break Heaven and thereby the mortal realm out of the suffering it had endured under the Jade Emperor’s negligent reign.”

“So that’s it? It was enough for you to abandon everything you had ever known?” Macaque couldn’t help but wonder aloud, dumbfounded. It was hard for him to imagine such a thoroughly defiant act of identity renunciation. Weren’t celestial servants all made with purpose, molded into life already carrying Heaven’s will?

Macaque - a demon used to creature comforts and humble desires, had always taken Azure’s zealous pursuit with a grain of salt, never quite giving in to the lion’s ideals nor his almost fanatical disdain toward Heaven’s existence. And yet that conviction was strong enough to inspire Yellowtusk the Wise to turn against his own design, a ripple in a pond capable of stirring the minds of supposed loyalists.

To one such as himself, there were few words to describe it other than mind-boggling.

“Oh no, no! That was a bit of oversimplification on my part,” Yellowtusk laughed easily. “It took much time and most of all, effort. But there’s comfort in knowing where the path would lead me.”

There was a thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he continued. “There is no universe where I wouldn't follow him or his noble cause. And had I not met my brothers, I wouldn’t have been me at all.”

Macaque, rather speechless, looked down at his laps. Such a hard notion to conceive - to proudly define yourself by someone else, and yet Macaque felt a part of him resonate with the seemingly outrageous act. His hand mindlessly came up to touch the bandana wrapped caringly around his neck - a gift, old and terribly cherished. His eyes, a little glazed in thoughts, still made out the shades of soft yellow, brown and black which his clothes and armour possessed, the same colours shared on their attires. His chest suddenly felt tight.

“Was it easy?” He quietly asked, not clarifying which part. Was it easy to fit yourself into a new life, a new role, a new purpose? Did Yellowtusk ever look back and miss what he used to be?

“It was not. Still isn’t, to be honest. I have left some part of me behind. But there are things worth sacrificing your old self for, and each day you’ll rise a bit easier for it.”

The monkey glanced up to see Yellowtusk had resumed cleaning his mallet. The cheek of the weapon, polished to a gleam, reflected the ex-celestial’s expression. The hint of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyelids, his gaze certain and content. In the back of his mind, Macaque noted what a peculiar weapon for a celestial official, that mallet of his was.

Macaque diverted his eyes to a spear lying among the small collection of weapons Yellowtusk usually trained with. The elephant made a habit of training with various types of weaponry to keep himself sharp and resourceful, from axes, lances to swords, of course with the mallet still being his main go-to into battle. And yet Macaque’s mind caught on to the special care the spear received during the routine cleaning sessions, the way Yellowtusk handled the thin and elegant weapon with a particular kind of well-worn familiarity deeper than muscle memory.

Oh.

Macaque turned his gaze back down again, staring at his palms rolled upward. His fingers twitched, the bare inner parts of his palms itching to form a grip around a staff conjured from shadows. If his eyes followed the length of the invisible weapon, the spikes at each end would still manifest as clearly in his mind as when he actually summoned it.

The voice of Yellowtusk was a muted sound rearing its head from the background. “I guess someday you’ll understand, brother.”

Distantly, Macaque could hear the noises of heavy footsteps stomping on land, the flapping of wings, the squawks and bickerings of a group of hunters carrying their spoils toward the mountain. Such a loud, mixed, and utterly messy cacophony, yet his ears easily picked apart the tapestry of sounds to hang on one steady beat of a stone heart.

Macaque wasn’t looking at Yellowtusk when his mouth opened, the reply coming naturally. “Maybe. I think I’m slowly getting it.”

-

To the north of China, before mortals discovered paper and the first king rose to the throne, the land used to be littered with ponds and lakes - footprints of celestial horses during the battles of the Five Emperors - and there used to be a jiāolóng laying claim to that land, the rumours say.

Its length was said to span across a thousand li, its width enough to block out the sun every time the beast arched its spine. Each day it drank a pond dry to wet its tongue, each night the swishings of its tail splashed water from the depths of lakes up to the sky, stirring clouds into tempests. Humans lived in fear, scared of stepping too hard on the ground it once trod, hid in low-roofed homes resembling pebbles in the eyes of the giant beast.

If there was something the jiāolóng detested more than disturbances to its naps, it was the disrespect. The jiāolóng, though mighty and scary as it was, was not a dragon. They say that a water snake after 500 years transforms into a jiāo; a jiāo after a millennium into a dragon, a dragon after 500 years a horned dragon, a horned dragon after a millennium into a winged dragon. It had lived for thousands of years, yet no sight of horns graced its head, no jump nor stretch could make it fly. Legends say its evil nature prevented it from metamorphosing, but whatever the case didn’t make a difference in how it lashed out in anger every time the word jiāo was uttered. Cowed, mortals instead whispered the name Hēilóng in cautionary tales told to travellers. Beware of the Black Dragon, they said, learn to fear its rumbles and bow at once when the sky suddenly darkens above your head.

But evil can never reign for long. When Yǔ the Great toured China in search of ways to control the water, he came across the jiāolóng terrorizing the northern people. With the help of his divine axe, peace was brought to the land.

Hēilóng’s fallen body, however, remained a beast in its own right after death. Its blood rotted the earth and its stench drove away animals. Heeding the cries of villagers, Yǔ set up an altar, offered sacrifices, and sealed off the last of Hēilóng’s tainted qi. The only thing left was a gargantuan corpse. Unable to be moved, the weight of its body slowly sank itself lower into the earth, connecting a thousand ponds into one big lake still spanning the size of the ancient beast.

Time passes much like the flow of rivers, centuries gone and civilization rebuilt life where death once made its mark. Humans of the northern reach no longer rush to bow at the darkening sky when there are roofs ready to shield their heads and fires to dry their clothes. What lingers is an old tale passed down by the elders, warning the youth to pay respect to the local water deity lest the malevolent soul of the Black Dragon escape from the depths.

-

Macaque arrives at the edge of the lake.

The water under his feet possesses an ice-cold clarity, letting him see through the translucent layers up to dozens of zhang below. However, that quality lessens after the forty mark, shrouding the true depth of the lake in mythic mystery.

The surface of the lake warps unnaturally to his touch, the ripples formed from the tip of his finger spreading a bit too far, too fast - a subtle concealment of detection magic. Seems like he was right in taking Yellowtusk’s analytical competence into account.

A huff. The elephant is not the first brother to know of his visit in advance.

Mumbles of a water-walking spell are followed by the activation of a protective bubble, the shadow choosing to face his former brother head-on. Lowering himself into the belly of the lake, he can feel a pull - near undetectable, were it not for the faintest trace of possessiveness lacing itself in the water. Maybe the tale he’s heard does have some credibility to it, after all.

The moment he’s fully submerged, the lake shifts. At once, the water turns pitch-black, a shade rivalling the darkest of his shadows encasing his bubble wholly, momentarily making him flounder at the sudden lack of viewscape. The pressure he felt before grows voracious, unruly horses taking over the reins to jank the blind carriage of his protection seal down, down, to the deepest depths where their master will bite through layers of wrappings to gladly feast on the meal delivered.

Gritting his teeth, Macaque summons a ball of light, reorients himself, and prepares for a fight.

Time passes like molasses while he is being guided under, the path unending in its length and monotony. A trick to tire its preys out before the inevitable, perhaps. Macaque wonders how much of this is his brother and how much is the lake’s greed showing though.

There’s something at the bottom of the lake.

Macaque, vision still muddled by the water, squints. A tiny speck of light, glowing a misty blue, almost mistaken for a trick of his own eye in the bleak darkness of his surroundings were it not for the faint pulsing of celestial magic. The closer he gets to it, the clearer two things become. One: this light is bigger than it seems, and two: it must be his destination.

Much like a pearl nested in between the bosom of a madam, the bubble gives off a faint shimmer, indicating its status as some kind of ward similar to the one Macaque casts around himself to protect against the element. In this circumstance, though, protection might not be its only usage.

Upon inspectable distance, the bubble reveals itself to be encasing a grand palace. Gleaming blue marble paves the courtyard and golden roofs sit atop pristine walls, while white pillars with carving of dragons coiling around the shafts dot the outer part of the palace, finishing its opulent aura. No doubt the gilded roofs are made with true gold. This level of decadence must have been crafted specifically for a king, or at least a demon lord with a fragile pride to boost.

His ears flicker. No sight nor sound of rushing servants can be inferred, and he has a hunch this is more than just a shortage of workers. The former inhabitants of this place have been driven out, replaced by a single occupant. What a shame.

The invisible tendrils pulling him start to dissipate, Macaque passes the spherical barrier with nary a pinch of resistance, forgoing his manners to land on the long hallway behind the closed gate.

Looking up, there is a moment of uneasy anticipation before he comes face to face with the lone keeper of this particular Palace of the Northern Sea. Yellowtusk steps out of the shadowed hall at the top of the stairway, mallet already hanging on his shoulder. The ex-celestial has a grave expression on his face, staring down at him with a kind of determination Macaque hopes is evenly returned.

“Long time no see, Yellowtusk.” Macaque, now sure-footed in his journey, chooses to be the opener of this match.

Both of them use the tense silence that follows to assess the other, eyes locking on the smallest of movements not unlike watching a predator poised to leap. The elephant, cruelly enough, looks almost exactly as he did hundreds of years ago. There are a couple more nicks on his big ears now, surely earned during the Brotherhood’s final battle against Heaven’s army, for he knows Yellowtusk, like the rest of those traitors, did not receive any torture punishment after capture while Wukong was stabbed and struck and burned.

The ex-celestial doesn’t even have the sense of shame to modify his shawl. Half of a certain circular seal peeks out from under the fabric, the etching of celestial script on its edge beckoning his gaze like rings of an archery target.

The thought of his older sworn brother unbothered, unchanged by the horrors which have befallen their youngest members, to the point he seems fit to keep his attire the same, to look at himself in the mirror for half a millennium and feels no remorse nor disgust, stokes a hatred unlike anything else in Macaque’s ribcage. Yellowtusk the Wise, Yellowtusk the Dependable, any and all terms of praise once held dear in his heart rot and crumble into bitter ash and melted viscera, Yellowtusk the Liar.

“Likewise, brother. Though I believe we both know you are not here for pleasantries,” Yellowtusk replies. Macaque can hear the muscles of his hand tighten in their grip of the mallet’s handle. His own hands itch in response.

“Ever observant, aren’t you? Do me this last favour and save the talk,” sneers the warrior. The venom in his veins spills out and solidifies into astral iron, the fiery glow a stark contrast in the washed out hues of the watery realm.

Perhaps in time, his molten rage will fizzle into detached commitment. For now, though, he revels in the widened eyes of his prey.

“So my suspicion was correct. You have found Wukong,” Yellowtusk’s gaze hardens after the initial astonishment, yet never leaving Suixin Bang all through his next words. “Did he set you up for this?”

Macaque stares at him.

Oh.

So this is what he thinks.

Maybe this is what all of them think, Macaque’s mind blankly supplies. An imprisoned demon gone mad with rage, manipulating anyone in reach to pursue his revenge. A foolish shadow falling for tricks and lies. What did they think the Monkey King had promised him, for Macaque to go through all this torment hoping for mortal rewards? What other horrid and selfish traits have they been attributing to their youngest sworn brother constrained and rotting, whilst they were sitting comfortably for centuries in their stolen palaces and deplorable cowardice?

Perhaps in another life, another world, another story, what Yellowtusk says might have possessed a modicum of truth. But on this earth, with this Wukong, Macaque realises the Brotherhood had not known them as well as he once thought.

Feeling like one big wound, Macaque gurgles out something sharp and choked. It takes him registering his crooked lips and bared fangs to become aware that he’s laughing. Or trying to, as each jagged sound embedded its thorns into his larynx so deeply he fears he’s bleeding. His body shakes like the bull skin stretched taut on a battle drum, every strike of drumstick matching his breaths and reverberating through his nerves. Macaque’s head drowns.

The smoldering rock of resentment logged in his throat finally hurled and spat out like vomit, Macaque starts to cackle. Squeaky, high pitched giggles which gradually evolve into roaring laughters, a thousand overlapping voices rise from the shadows to compose a maniacal choir. The very earth trembles from the echoes of lunacy. Madness swaddles him like a babe, closing his eyes to terror, shielding his mind from grief.

When his vision clears, all he sees is red.

The first strike at Yellowtusk is easily parried.

Two hands gripping the handle, one foot stepping on the end to form a stable point, Yellowtusk raises the head of the mallet just enough to block Macaque’s blow. The ex-celestial’s face betrays nothing but a slight frown - a famed focus in the works. He wants to rip that face out with his teeth, chew it up and spit it out. He wants to claw his way through Yellowtusk’s chest to grasp his core and squeeze. He wants him flayed and quartered, burned and nailed, and while being conscious. He wants- He wants-

Hate runs deepest where love once flowed, Macaque wants it to hurt.

With a swing of the mallet, the shadow is casted back. He lands on the paved floor half a second later than he should’ve, a detail that doesn’t go unnoticed. A couple more moves and Macaque comes to the realisation that this delay is similar to the drag caused by water resistance.

His mind is taken back to his and Wukong’s first and last trip down the domain of the Dragon of the East. Dragon kings are a pretentious bunch, their palaces always maintained inside a clear bubble to ensure no sheen of gold nor gleam of embellished jewels are lost to the murky water at the bottom of the seas. Yet they secretly take pleasure in Heavenly ambassadors’ stumbles upon stepping foot in their kingdoms, because the realms are designed for it - the clear atmosphere is not due to a lack of water, but rather a process of clarification. Inside a barrier enabled by complex, heavy seals, the water passing through is cleansed of all impurities until reaching a transparent state unobstructing vision. However, its physical qualities remain - the density, the viscosity, the currents - things often overlooked by immortals’ water breathing spells and strength, with the confused tripping of feet their only cue.

In cases of battle, though, the diaphanous environment brings out the best of the Dragons’ aquatic abilities, letting them manipulate the currents to their advantage and conjuring invisible vortexes in offense. It had been quite the trouble for Wukong and by extension, him on their quest to steal a weapon befitting the Monkey King’s prowess, and had it not been for that instance, Macaque wouldn’t have learned of this crafty trick. A trick that Yellowtusk seems to have replicated perfectly.

Macaque’s protection seal - an independent air bubble granting him ease of breath miles under water - has had its weakness exposed. The fine film marking the border of his seal, whose characteristics normally identical to his surroundings and thus inconsequential in combat, now stands out like brocade among silk. In Yellowtusk’s stolen domain, the pressure controlled by his estranged brother constantly smashes against the sides of his ward, the differences in qualities making clear his mobilisation will be affected. He must calculate not only his movements but also the larger resistance of his bubble. Any jump may be a bit shortened or exaggerated, any swing of his weapon must brave against the currents formed around Yellowtusk’s own protection seal, rendering his attack a tad more unpredictable than Macaque would like.

This is no mere brutish brawl, but more so a battle of strategy and sealwork expertise.

Macaque’s lack of experience in subaquatic fighting has skewed the favour firmly toward Yellowtusk’s side. He doesn’t know what else the elephant has up his sleeve, which only serves to grow his vexation.

The warrior takes in a deep breath, holds it for a good while before steadily exhaling. There’s no better way to test the waters than stirring it first, he supposes.

He whispers, and the background occupied by his shadows falls into vulturous silence. Like spilled ink upon a table, darkness bleeds into his surroundings, staining the ground where they stand, devouring the spherical ceiling above their heads. The process is not instant yet quick enough to startle Yellowtusk, who only has time to spare a glance back and realise his entrance has been blocked off.

Spiritual energy concentrated in the body of the staff, Suixin Bang lights up like a torch in a cavern. Macaque’s grin can not be seen by the ex-celestial as he drops backward into his shadow, traversing through the realm he knows best.

Yellowtusk rapidly darts his eyes around, trying to acclimate to the pitch black veil which has draped over them to no avail. Macaque has given him a taste of true darkness - not born from a shortage of light but rather a complete absence of it. Any second longer one spends in this space is another step toward insanity. Nothing that exists in this sort-of realm can be seen by an outsider - those who do not have shards of shadow infused with their soul, who do not feel for the fabric of darkness as if it was their own flesh.

For as long as he has been alive, Macaque is the undisputed keeper of it. And now, the lord has extended a forceful invitation.

It’s a pity he cannot maintain this veil for long, the act of spreading himself too thin will eventually expose weaknesses. Macaque just needs to disorient his target until the perfect time for a single strike - one hopefully fatal enough to take down his opponent or severely disarm them.

CLANG!

Yellowtusk swivels around just in time to block the attack aiming straight for his back, the clashing of solids and shadows normally giving off a chiming sound, now ringing closer to true steel. The point where Suixin Bang comes into contact with the mallet is slightly off center, a move Macaque quickly finds out is intentional as Yellowtusk uses the momentum of the hit to shift his mallet’s side horn into place, locking the staff’s movements. The mallet steers once more, and Macaque is dragged forward along with his weapon before he can think.

Acting on pure instinct, Macaque releases Suixin Bang’s solid form to get out of Yellowtusk’s close range, dispelling the expansion of his shadow domain to preserve his energy and jumping backward, narrowly dodging the gold-coated unguals of the ex-celestial’s kick. He lands on the tiled floor a few zhang away, heart still pumping as his staff rematerialises into his grip.

How did Yellowtusk even parry his strike?

Sensing his wide-eyed surprise, the ex-celestial turns to face him once again, mallet raised mid-height with nary a wasted move.

“Your method was excellent but not infallible. The shadow you casted over me was merely an illusion. I may not be able to see your presence, but the difference between water and the air inside your seal notified me of your approach,” the elephant explains, calmly pointing out Macaque’s flaw with the ease of a seasoned strategist. He must be sure Macaque won’t be able to execute that manoeuvre twice.

Damn it! He seethes. Yellowtusk’s stance is too strong for him to come up with another line of attack, the elephant firmly settling on the defense. Pink eyes tracking Macaque’s moves, every missed hit another glimpse into his style and footwork. If this continues, Macaque will be the first to tire out.

For the first time, the shadow realises the table has turned on him - the one playing the long game is now his opponent. He has lost the element of surprise the moment his shadows fell, and now it’s a race before one of these things happens: he manages to take down Yellowtusk, or the elephant finishes analysing his seals and unravels them, forcing him to retreat and invent a stronger seal the next time they face off lest he drowns upon contact.

Another glance at the ex-celestial’s narrowed expression tells him his old brother has also come to that conclusion. He must do something, and he must do it now.

Torn between risky unpredictableness and ineffective patternability, Macaque lets the call in his heart take over. Zipping toward the elephant, he mentally wipes out his reservations, allowing his body to follow the lead of the environment, muscles synchronised and interworking with the currents. His swings go along with the flow of water, creating circular motions aided by natural force.

Macaque creates a smaller air seal inside his existing bubble, then dispels the larger one to minimize his resistance. His strength strains under the multiple tasks, yet he pushes on, driven to find a crack in Yellowtusk’s defense as quickly as possible.

In contrast, the elephant meets his aggression with composure, feet unfaltering as he counters Macaque’s attacks blow for blow, steely gaze never straying from the shadow.

A particularly heavy slam of the mallet cracks the floor under them into rubble, the weapon temporarily lodged under marble stones. Macaque takes that opening to attempt a high swing directly at the other’s head while he is struggling to pull out the large weapon. But moments before the staff meets skin, he is knocked out of his breath by a solid punch delivered right to his chest.

Macaque is thrown back at least a dozen zhang, colliding hard with a guardpost on the side of the hallway, falling unceremoniously on the rock cliff jutting out below. He greets the earth on his front, coughing out blood while chips of the guardpost’s bricks tumble down around him. A feint, his mind belatedly supplies.

Head swimming, Macaque pushes himself up by his arms and is suddenly made aware of the searing sensation of rib bones breaking, the agony toppling his balance. Barely stifling a pathetic moan when his chest once again drops to the ground, hard, he breathes in a lungful of air and winces. A bit more and my lungs would’ve been flattened.

Face down and most likely scratched, Macaque grits his teeth and tries again. Threads of shadows run under his skin, making slow work of mending his internal organs back together. A dull ache settles deep within his chest, every muscle inside him protesting the slightest move. Macaque pants like a starved dog as he makes his way to a sitting position, legs spayed halfway to a kneel while his arms become the main support. It takes a minute for the world to stop spinning, the shadow looking up with a creak in his neck.

Yellowtusk is still standing right where he has been since he appeared, at the top of the stairs in front of the palace - an immovable object. Macaque doesn’t know whether to feel insulted or vindicated that the elephant hasn’t moved an inch, possibly not trusting the shadow hasn’t set up some trapping seals on this ground the moment he arrived.

Brows knitting, Macaque squints to better take in Yellowtusk’s expression, and blinks. Is that sadness crossing his face?

“I am truly disheartened that we have come to this, brother. Is your faith in the Brotherhood so easily shaken?” Yellowtusk’s voice is carried through the air with the aid of magic, reaching Macaque’s battered ears.

Maybe his ears have been torn somewhen in battle, because he simply cannot believe what he’s hearing. His lips grow thin with anger, baring his teeth. The veins in his neck stand out in livid ridges, the clenching of his jaw pulling them taut like ropes fastened on an executed man. His eyes narrow to slits, twin blades skinning Yellowtusk from afar as he snarls his response.

“Faith in what?! The traitors who masqueraded as our kin just to drop us like collateral the moment things went south? Those who revealed themselves as the same hypocrites they vowed to smite? He who yielded, he who lied; they who cowered and complied?” Blood splatters down his chin, bruised lungs pressing on every bitter word. “You were one hell of an actor, Yellowtusk. Or maybe I was just a fool.”

The ex-celestial has the audacity of taking a measured breath, as if trying to reason with a stubborn child. His next words thin Macaque’s pupils to pinpricks.

“You are too lost in your own pain to realise this is a burden we all shared. Must I remind you none of us has been free since the contract was struck? I am just as confined as he is. The fact our prisons are stationed on earth is just a tantalising treat dangled at the end of a string which the celestial realm is gleefully holding - the thought that we could reach our hands out of the cages they tossed us in.” Putting the final nail in the coffin, he adds, “Out of the Brotherhood, you are the only one who’s still free.”

The sea floor rumbles to the thunderous growls emanating from the shadow’s throat. Macaque barks, “You think I'm free when I don’t even consider this as living? You say you’re bound when he can no longer bear breathing too deep? Your bloodied hands shook on Heaven’s offer, your craven heads bowed to their shackles. You lot recruited him for the sole role of the perfect felon when all else fell, and you dare ask for gratitude?” His last utterance comes close to a bellow. “I am not so blind as to equate your mallet to the gavel of judges, you bastard!”

Everything that is burning inside his chest inflames tenfold for each glance at Yellowtusk’s pinched brows, drawn into a shadow of contrition. The palace gleams white behind his form.

“I apologise if we have ever made you feel underappreciated. My advice for you is to not let anger distort our past together or weaken your trust, as time is wont to do. Hold on to the drinks we shared, the battles we fought, and the goal we all aimed for. Persevere through this period of hardship, keep your faith in our brother Azure’s plan unwavering, and our pursuit will certainly come to fruition.”

The string holding his final piece of respect starts to fray, thread by thread unravelling itself. Macaque asks, “And what is his plan?”

His eye doesn’t miss the way Yellowtusk flinches akin to a man having his life’s work questioned for the first time. The effort it takes to stabilise his voice does not go unnoticed, either.

“The urgency and gravity of our situation did not allow for clarification, but Azure has never led us astray. He was our flag, our glue, the visionary who has enlightened us from a fate of ignorance. I chose to believe in his leadership, and it’s belief that will clear the path when the time comes.”

The string snaps.

It must be cliché how much Macaque has been laughing lately when he himself is sick of it. It must be cruel how this is the only thing he can ever do these days. Grief has long overloaded his self, spilling out in forms of cackles and wheezes. If he gets all the air in his chest out, maybe his tears will go along with it, his body seems to think.

His bout of breathless giggles cut short, Macaque looks up at Yellowtusk with the kind of mirth one reserves for a clown.

“Gods, I had thought you were his accomplice, but I can see now that you are something even worse: a fool. You are more sightless than a half blind monkey, more delusional than a frog at the bottom of a well. I truly was an idiot for admiring you so much back then.

If a cage is not enough to squeeze out a revelation in that brain of yours, let this dead man walking do the job: Azure does not fucking care for us, for you, or anyone. He would rather feed you for the wolves than lowering his chance of getting what he wants.”

Half moons of sarcasm staring straight at Yellowtusk’s stern gaze, watching the other open his mouth with a concealed huff.

“I simply cannot believe that, Macaque.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Staff once more summoned to his side, Macaque bites back a wince as he rises to his feet. There is still information he can draw out of his opponent yet. Through the rushing water, he hears the sound of Yellowtusk’s palms tightening around the mallet in anticipation.

Eyes glowing, Macaque envisions his control over the few shadows found under the lakebed and casts his intention. Invisible threads of his power pull at the land below and warp the living world to their image. The lamps dotting the end of the palace’s golden roof linings bust in succession much similar to a firework show. Darkness grows under their feet.

A hint of confusion crosses Yellowtusk’s visage. His frown, previously locked onto Macaque’s, breaks to follow the source of the shadow, and by then it’s already in motion. The ex-celestial widens his eyes to the lengthened shade of the warrior’s shadow cutting a straight path over once well-lit floor. From the darkened ground, spikes in black and purple tint pop up in vicious lines, choreographing their rapid advance toward the elephant.

The wall of hardened shadow draws an earth-shaking boom upon colliding with the grand door of the palace. When the water clears itself from the dust produced by the debris, the effect is revealed: the steps leading up to the door have been demolished, leaving a pile of rubble their only trace of past existence. Where once was a circular, royal blue gate has been replaced by a gaping hole cutting jaggedly across marble wall not unlike a mauling of flesh..

Yellowtusk is not found at the scene of destruction. Instead, the elephant has landed safely on the lower floor a couple of zhang away from his former post, having forfeited his high ground advantage. They are almost eye to eye now, and if the tides are to turn in his favour Macaque intends to bring him lower.

Not one to chatter on the battlefield, Yellowtusk switches right to the offense. Macaque feels his own sphere of influence being invaded in real time, pressed back by a power woven into the very atoms of the water making up their surroundings. Yellowtusk’s eyes glow an eerie magenta, the currents turn strange and then bizarre, movements finally settling on the forms of giant translucent water snakes circling around their master.

A finger raises at him, and the serpents lunge.

Macaque narrowly dodges the gaping maw of the first snake hurling at him, jumping on its head to slide down its length. The five or four serpents from before have merged into two bigger beasts as they charge forward, a fact he has quickly learnt after escaping the second set of fangs attempting to close around his torso. They still possess a glassy and transparent look from the water that formed their shapes, though Macaque has a hunch their attacks are anything but intangible.

He leaps, ducks, runs and diverts his way out of the beasts’ bites, searching for their weakness. A swing of his staff go right through their bodies, while their missed attacks leave craters in their wake. This conditional palpability poses an annoying challenge, one Macaque is not eager to entertain on a depleting well of stamina.

How to dispose of something that doesn’t have a material form? Streams of water cannot be cut off longer than a second. He must recall everything he knows of the element’s characteristics and weigh them against his own, finding something of himself that water is not capable of.

Glimmer of an idea sparks in his head. He darts along the length of a serpent, using Suixin Bang as a brake to avoid its teeth in time. From beneath his feet, shadows emerge and drape over its body, a raven cloak cladded on an unwilling wearer. It thrashes at the unwanted cover, throwing Macaque off its body to land on its counterpart, but the shades don’t retreat. Taking his shadow as a base, his power has successfully latched on the thin line of shadow residing in the layer separating its body from the surrounding water, and uses it as the new source of nutrition to thrive.

This sort of feat used to be out of his ability, the hook of his shadow never quite able to catch on darkness that has spread itself too thin. Ever since he grew bolder in his quest, though, the new surplus of power pouring into him through the conduit that is Suixin Bang has seemingly unlocked his potentials, helping him gain control over shadows on a level only ever imagined.

He does the same with the other snake, using its minuscule film of shadow and stretching the darkness until it is enveloped fully. The two beasts now resemble dark, writhing ribbons that are still capable of crushing him lest he makes a misstep and gets stuck in the middle - a fact he’s about to change.

Left eye glowing, Macaque clenches his fist and the motion becomes a directive. The sleeves of shadows harden, greatly reducing the serpents’ movements. The inner layers, which are in contact with the snakes’ bodies, start to bleed a piercing darkness into their hosts, cutting through the barriers while containing them so that none of the liquid can escape and reform.

Through his connection with the shadows, he can feel more and more of the beasts being infiltrated by his power. Feel the water as if it’s flowing over his skin. The shades- his shades, are running along the shape of the beasts, tubes of darkness stealing their force and making themselves their hosts’ spines - dozens of shadowy streams taking over the snakes’ body cavities.

His closed palm opens into tight claws, and with them the shadows part. Like a knot unravelling, the threads containing stolen matter from the water serpents burst free from their confines, their hosts shredded from head to tail into a hundred strands. Macaque wills his might and the small streams scatter themselves like worms into multiple directions, his control not letting them have the chance to regroup.

In under a minute, all that’s left of the beasts is the purple trace of his shadow floating in the water.

The exertion of his power leaves Macaque a bit more than disoriented, his vision taking a moment to adjust and right itself from the dazed state. Panting, he turns to face his opponent, instincts ringing alarms in his head at Yellowtusk’s silent presence while he was dealing with the beasts.

He meets Yellowtusk’s penetrating gaze. No doubt the elephant has gotten a full view of his show of strength and so far has done throughout work of mentally dissecting it. Macaque would’ve preferred not to show his cards so soon, but the situation’s left him little choice.

The ex-celestial flickers his eyes behind Macaque - an unintentional move. As the thespian he is, the shadow immediately clocks the subtle expression of concealment. Something’s terribly wrong.

A sense of dread invades his mind as Macaque swivels to where Yellowtusk’s gaze pointed. Looking back, he should’ve known counting on sight is the most fatal mistake one can make when dealing with an enemy who has personally trained with you for centuries.

A rustle is all it takes. Macaque looks down, to his chest, where a thin, condensed transparent stream of water has cut through his shirt from behind and pierced a clean hole where his core resides. Yellowtusk must’ve taken advantage of his temporary dizziness to get past his guard. Macaque has ensured the giant beasts cannot reform, but there’s no need for size when the attack only requires control over a singular stream of high-pressure water, redirected precisely at the right time.

Magic - his life force - drips out of his ribcage in rivulets of tar-like liquid, something too grotesque to be celestial, too divine to be earthbound, a recent development that is lost among other, more mysterious changes to his physiology. Yellowtusk always has a keen eye, he thinks, dazedly staring at the gaping hole which has been incisively positioned at the heart of his magic core, not a centimetre out of line. The attack has not taken his life right away, letting what remains around the wound lay bare the process of his unnatural, gradual death.

Suixin Bang dissipates from his hand, the magic rushing back to his heart is akin to water pouring into a broken vessel. His legs buckle, toppling him forward with only leaden thighs and arms keeping the warrior kneeling. The seals he has put up around himself start to wane.

His vision swims, drooping head having little will to raise itself. The qi escaping his chest has formed a pitch-black puddle in which his reflection cannot be seen. It feels like more of his life force is gushing out of his mouth at every shallow gasp.

“How peculiar…”

Yellowtusk’s voice parts the sludge which has been steadily filling his brain’s crevices. “I distinctly remember your blood neither having this colour nor quality. Yet I can sense mortality in its crimson undertone. Your magic is unstable, your qi a storm in your core. But why?”

Macaque’s chuckle sounds more like a choking noise. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The dying shadow cannot see Yellowtusk’s face, but he has a feeling his once sworn brother's brows are drawn up in thought right now. Well, it’s not like he can stop him.

A spark of epiphany lights up his next words. “There’s another energy inside you, isn't there? A force so powerful it’s changing your soul’s characteristics, yet intimate enough to be able to blend in and not erase your existing qi. That’s why your magic is fluctuating - it’s still in the process of rebalancing itself.”

Were his full mind still with him, Macaque would’ve felt annoyed that Yellowtusk could deduce his condition so efficiently. But even his ears are failing him now, and so he can only muster up a vague sense of wonder. Old habits truly are hard to break.

Eyes bear onto him from above. Has the seal around him broken already? The sloshing of water accompanies Yellowtusk’s speech, pressing against his eardrums. It’s gonna be a hassle to get his ears dry later.

“The chaotic state of your magic should’ve been a massive disadvantage in defeating any of us. However, if my deduction is correct, Demon Bull King has fallen under your hand. Was this new energy aiding you instead? It would explain the altered form of your staff. How did you come in contact with such a volatile gift?”

This damned wound has unfortunately punctured his lungs, so there’s no more jeering he can offer his once-kin. Macaque slumps further, choking on another clump of ashen blood travelling up his airway, leaving Yellowtusk to his monologue.

“It’s from Wukong, isn’t it? I can only point to him as the source of your added power. I have not forgotten his tale of erasing your names from the Books of the Dead. That's how you persevered through your fight with Demon Bull King - you didn’t. You came back as many times as it took, and you’ll come back for me all the same.”

Macaque’s stringless limbs finally give out, falling onto his own pool of blood in a heap. The liquid doesn’t splatter nor does it dilute with the lakewater. Instead, he can feel his body slowly sinking into it, an ocean welcoming the wrecked ship of his corpse. Macaque’s delirium brings a quirk to his lips at the vow his brother has uttered on his part.

“I must commend you on your impossible feat. Finding him, or us, is not a task the celestial realm would let anyone accomplish, especially you. I know you can’t tell me the details right now, but I hope you’ll have time to reflect on this encounter.” The liquid has swallowed half of his face now, the black waves almost rising to lap at his flesh.

“It is my wish that the next time we see each other, our minds will be closer to an understanding. I’ll insist on your stay either way.” The elephant makes no step toward him, wary of the consequences. Macaque is certain he won’t be so unprepared next time.

The shadow’s smile sharpens into a teeth-baring sneer. With a final twitch, he makes the last move and dives into the Realm Between himself.

-

Macaque arrives at Yellowtusk’s doorstep the second time with the conviction that it will be his last.

There’s no other option, really. He has tipped his hand a bit too far last time, and the elephant’s brain is not to be underestimated. Already he had deduced the source of Macaque’s revival ability, or the fact that he can come back from the dead at all. The element of surprise is being taken from him at a rate he’s uncomfortable with. The faster he can end this fight the better.

It is with this mentality that Macaque enters the forcefield around the Palace with no regard for stealth. It has barely been three days after their first engagement, the warrior rushing back here freshly after resurrection. He’d had no time for his body to be fully back to prime condition, let alone devising a sneak attack. Besides, Macaque doubts that any plan he thinks of wouldn’t have already passed the ex-celestial’s mind.

He lands on the familiar hallway with a sight he has expected: an armed Yellowtusk at the top of the stairway. The deserted Palace carries the marks of their last encounter still, piles of rubble lie untouched and craters litter the ground where their weapons made impacts. The entrance frame behind Yellowtusk is the same, with the floor in front of it still spotting a round depression from a certain celestial mallet’s misswing.

Macaque knows better than to trust his half-blind vision. The shadow dips his sight into the darkness, feeling for discrepancies. What he reaps confirms his suspicion. The ground Yellowtusk stands on, instead of the large, uneven remains where mallet met marble, lies a pristine floor under a veil of illusion. The wide crack running across the entrance case has also been fixed and glamoured, allowing passage into the inner chambers.

The rest is mostly true to sight. Yellowtusk has been careful in creating a perception of an untampered battlefield, following the vital rules of an illusionist: use the least magic, and make the smallest changes.

Had Macaque not been versed in his own craft, he’d have been fooled. But as it stands, the evidence points toward truth: this place is riddled with traps - restraining magic circles and caging seals painstakingly hidden under spells he can’t undo yet, welcoming gifts Yellowtusk has designed in his short absence to push him into acceptance of his mockery of an invitation.

I’ll insist on your stay either way, Yellowtusk’s promise echoes.

There’s no way for him to see through all the places harboring traps, and he’s more than sure these delicate contraptions will not activate on anything other than the slightest trace of himself stepping into the middle. His best bet would be to avoid touching the ground altogether, relying on shadow gliding and qinggong to traverse the terrain. Safer, but not lighter on his magical reserve.

Another layer is added to his water walking spell just in time for Yellowtusk to initiate the conversation. A low voice rings through the palace ground. “Greetings, Macaque. Have you considered my suggestion yet?”

“Your proposition to lie down and endure what Azure has piled onto us, just as you have been doing with nary a groan for the last centuries? I may be half blind but you are full-on delusional if you think I’d even spare it a thought.” Macaque’s answer is not a growl yet teetering on the edge of one.

It speaks volumes of his progress that the sight of Yellowtusk’s disappointed exhale makes no dent on his heart anymore. Macaque calls for his hardened will at the same time the elephant switches his hold on the mallet to both hands.

Arrows of summoned shadow rush toward Yellowtusk’s station with vengeful intent. The ex-celestial merely offers a shake of his head.

“What a shame. Doubt has torn your faith asunder.”

The battle is not going well.

It’s something he knows beforehand but still annoying to experience. Macaque has pulled almost every trick new and old he has learnt, hoping to goad Yellowtusk into cracking. Yet the seasoned strategist has repelled every single one of them effortlessly, always one step ahead all while keeping a firm hold on his post.

Bruises blend in with the dark matted mess that is his fur, his body spotting marks from the various times he got violently thrown into the walls surrounding the palace. His head is spinning, a left-over effect from the vortex Yellowtusk has conjured from pulses of elemental magic ejecting from his trunk. Macaque’s grip on the staff wavers as he leans on it a bit more to balance on the top of a pillar, where he landed after narrowly avoiding another activated trapping sigil.

And what fearsome traps they are. More than thrice he has been close to becoming contained by one of them, the sigils activating at the hint of his momentum crossing their centers. Their reach also extends way up, which means even floating past them from above is not a viable solution. Macaque is forced to memorise each of their locations and create a mental map while unleashing attacks after attacks on Yellowtusk, a task made harder by the seals’ immediate reversion back into their unassuming state after activation.

Macaque sways as he straightens up, his stance unbalanced. He doesn’t have to look down to feel the blood yet to coagulate at the end of his clipped toes - ones too slow to escape an active seal. Yellowtusk does not play around with his declaration. The elephant knows he cannot kill Macaque, so imprisoning him becomes the next best plan that would equate putting an instant stop to his quest. Macaque shudders at the possible outcome..

From his vantage point, the shadow has a full view of Yellowtusk standing in front of the gate to the inner palace, unmoved by the battle. It’s likely to avoid getting caught in his own traps, but even so Macaque’s sure his old brother can remember their places just fine. It’s to minimise the chance Macaque might deduce the seals’ locations by the elephant’s movements, then.

His chest still aches from a particularly well-timed bite from one of Yellowtusk’s water serpents, the condensed water jaws nearly breaking his ribs with the force of its mouth closing alone. The giant snakes are currently circling their master, acting as another layer of deadly protection. In the center, the faint glow of Yellowtusk’s pink eyes illuminate his dark eyebags.

His strength is depleting fast, his mobility greatly reduced, Macaque ponders his final offensive attempt. He needs something new, something his older brother and former teacher doesn’t expect, something quick and effective. The many years training together has made Yellowtusk too adept in parsing his moveset, coupled with the limitations of his weapon, his hope of landing a perfect attack has never seemed further. A swing from any direction is too choreographed, a plunge with the staff’s blunt ends deals too little damage against hardened skin. What can he do to eliminate these vulnerabilities?

A grin stretches his face as an idea strikes. Magic rushes to his command, a swirling storm of pure power levitates him even higher, darkness spins into maelstrom around his form. At the heart of it, Macaque and the staff blend in perfectly if not for his glowing eye. The barrier glitches.

Sensing danger, Yellowtusk squints at him from below, looking much like an ant. “Macaque, stop! Your magic is too unstable! It’s getting out of control!”

What a funny thing to say, because Macaque has never felt more confident. More in charge. Waves upon waves of addicting fervour crash into his chest, filling it till the unexplainable glee surges to his skull. His focus sharpens, vision zeroing on the sigil on Yellowtusk’s chest.

A burst of power propels Macaque downward, leaving a flammeous trail. His arms raise Suixin Bang in the position of an overhead strike, falling like a meteorite.

Yellowtusk’s eyes widen at the speed of his descent, hefting his mallet up to meet Macaque’s blow, the shape of the oversized weapon temporarily blocking his sight as the ex-celestial waits for a collision that never comes.

Because seconds before the crash, Macaque has opened a portal mid-air, diving into the darkness to reemerge on another airborne portal right behind the elephant - a feat never witnessed prior to this moment. His reappearance is without all of his protection seals, eradicating most of his presence’s indications. His arms’ placement falls naturally into a thrust, the blunt end of his staff having transformed into the cutting edge of a spearhead, charging straight into Yellowtusk’s unguarded back.

With a momentum perfectly preserved, it’s no wonder Macaque’s iron heart can pierce through celestial flesh so easily.

When the shadow hears the second telltale rip of skin announcing his successful impalement, Yellowtusk is still caught in a frozen trance. His core - one Macaque has done a thorough job stabbing through - wavers, expanding one last time in a botched attempt to push out the intrusion before fizzling out like the rest of the ex-celestial’s movements. Yellowtusk’s mallet drops unceremoniously, its wielder lurching forward into a kneel. The water stills.

Macaque, who has yet to relinquish his hold on the unconventional skewer he has created, watches as Yellowtusk’s silhouette begins to fray, the edges of his body slowly disintegrate into particles of qi. It’s an occurrence he’s not unfamiliar with on the battlefield, how Heavenly soldiers’ fallen bodies would shatter upon themselves and return to their base form - undiluted celestial energy, to be later recycled and made anew in the bowels of a divine progenitor. He just doesn’t expect to see it on any of his kin, then or now.

Another beat passes. Yellowtusk’s whole form stutters, and Macaque is reminded of the way celestial beings go down - quietly, with no trace of blood to clean off. The pulse of his opponent’s shrinking core spasms one final time. Macaque’s gaze keeps locking on the point where his improvised spear disappears into the center of the circular seal.

Yellowtusk’s gravely voice interrupts the silence just as the ends of his feet start to fade.

“I suppose this is it for me. I have no word but to accept this defeat. You have gone far since we last met, brother.” Macaque can hear the vibration of his speech through the metal. Judging by the position of Yellowtusk’s head, the elephant is staring at the spearhead jutting out of his chest.

“I know it’s too late for me, for us, to ever hope to come out of this mess unscathed. I’ve had half a millennium to come to peace with the fact. But you? You have just got the first taste of it, haven’t you?”

His knees have fully disintegrated. “When the first chain was broken, all of us felt it - a disruption of the status quo in the highest degree, creating a kind of pain that is unmistakable. I was there when the chains were forged, after all. I know how deep the connection goes. That first fracture tolled a specific bell, rang a particular sound of dread in our ribs, sparked an inconceivable fear for an inevitable end. One that only urges the remainders to lash out harder, trying to prevent it. And still you insist on continuing this path nevertheless.”

By now, most of Yellowtusk has dissolved into golden sparkles. His upper chest and the core persist, but based on the speed at which the process is going, not for long. Already Macaque can see his impaled core on the modified staff with no body to cover the sight. The shadow grips the astral iron tighter.

Being made of magic means Yellowtusk’s voice is not affected till the very end, yet he can hear how his old brother’s last words have taken on a quiver.

“Have you thought of what awaits you once your task is completed? What is to become of Wukong when he comes back to a world without his brothers?

I’m asking if you are truly comprehending the price you think you’re paying when you turn on your own kin. Tell me, Macaque. Tell me you will not regret it.”

Somehow, Macaque can find his voice again for a final answer. “I won’t.”

The last specks of Yellowtusk glimmer faintly, indicating his departure. With a gentle whisper, he turns into stardust, a golden stream floating upward. “Then go on, order-breaker. Finish what you've begun.”

Chapter Text

Surely they’ll come to get me.

Surely they didn’t love me

all that time for this.

-

“That’ll be five coins, sir! You’re lucky I’ve still got some of these left,” the shopwoman holds out a small bundle of carrots, an easy laugh evident on her face as money is dropped into her open palm.

Instead of an answer, Macaque merely nods back, accepting the bundle with a hand reaching out from under his long cloak, the same fabric covering most of his head and features. The horse behind him neighs impatiently, muzzle reaching for the vegetables. Macaque lets it take a bite of the snack and munch on it as he turns to continue on his way down the market.

The setting sun is casting a warm orange-ish light over the slowly dispersing market, the day pressing its round thumb on the cheek of night. Macaque leads his horse through the thinning crowd that is taking their leave. Mothers hold their children’ hands, chubby fingers gripping sticks of tanghulu while the more nimble ones help carry bags of goods. A few men can be seen with bottles of rice wine in their arms, faces coloured a tipsy red. Along the street, vendors clean up their stalls and call out offers for the last of their products, loading the leftovers onto buffalo-drawn carts. All may be heading in different directions, yet share one destination in their heads: home.

Home, where the dim light of candles and oil lamps illuminates the faces of their beloveds, of families huddled together around humble meals with smiles on their lips and crinkled crow feet, of twinkling laughter and stories of the working day. Home, where the night doesn’t seem as dark, the chill doesn’t feel as cold with bodies pressed close under thin blankets, hands clutched tight.

Macaque’s feet silently carry him onward, up the stream of people until the cloaked figure is truly alone at the outskirts of the village.

The village doesn’t have a clear border marking its territory from the woods per se. It’s rather a point where the bushes have turned into trees and bamboo groves that greatly hinder the villagers from seeing much of their environment, aside from the narrow path cutting through the dense forest. To see is to be aware of danger, and the less one can glean of their surroundings, the greater the urge to turn back. The sun by now has almost disappeared behind the faraway mountains, the last of its leftover pink hue stretching the shades under people’s feet eerily long.

The master of shadow, like many times before, calmly steps into the dark.

-

The forest is never truly quiet. Though the rustling of leaves may sound like the only thing making noise, the land isn’t lacking in nightly inhabitants. Bugs and worms squirms under crunched, fallen foliage. Stationary owls’ hoots echo through the trees. A flick of Macaque’s ears and the silent footsteps of nocturnal predators come into focus. The woods breathe in dancing winds and the final gasps of prey.

Macaque’s night vision, albeit excellent, does not extend to his steed, so with a purposeful exhale he conjures a ball of soft light levitating ahead of their path. Macaque climbs on his horse, letting it amble through the illuminated trail.

This is why he chose to purchase a mode of transportation for this trip. Before he can pinpoint the exact location of the seal holders, his quest consists of a lot of tedious walking. Sure, he could always use his shadows to shorten the distance, but the warrior more often than not finds the journey a valuable time for planmaking. He can make haste later, when ire consumes his mind upon contact with broken promises.

For now, he is content to let his mind wander along the even hooffalls of his steed, travelling quietly through a moonlit bamboo forest with the assurance that his presence alone is enough to deter what few predators frequenting the land.

The tender, silky moonlight bathes the world in a dreamlike mist, the droplets forming at grasstips shining at the right angle. Upon disturbance, another population of the forest lazily comes into view. Fireflies rise from the ground in flickering yellow, forfeiting their grassy cover to clumsily roam and bump into their fellows. Some opt to circle around the artificial light source Macaque summoned, mistaking it for a vibrant potential lover while the rest have already broken off to engage in their own luminous waltz.

Macaque’s hood is down, the shadow feeling rather languorous with his glamours, so all six of his petal-like ears are free to twitch and swivel at anything that catches their attention. The woods continue to glow, light filtering through the canopy like puddles of milk splattering on a plate of royal blue as the shadow makes his way westward.

Steadily, the sound of flowing water leads him to a bridge.

The bridge is a well-constructed one, with straight planks of wood making up its curved deck, stable beams supporting the railings, finished with gold-painted decoration pieces at each junction. It’s good enough to serve as a major route for merchants finding a way to cross the narrow river, yet the moss covering much of the exposed wood tells him this bridge has rarely been used for a while.

There’re few means to be certain of the rot these boards may harbor. Macaque decides to get off his horse, holding on to the leash while he walks ahead. The first step on the construct seems secure enough, so with an emboldened composure he starts to lead the cream-coloured mare onto the wooden bridge.

It is when Macaque has gotten halfway through the bridge that the river begins to stir. At first, it’s just a slight disturbance, a rising of the currents’ height. But then the peaks turn sharper, the river’s caresses against the piles become forceful shoves, and the bridge starts to shake akin to a frightened prey. Macaque nearly trips over his feet as his steed lets out a startled neigh. The mare rears up, janking herself out of her halter before galloping ahead in fear, almost kicking Macaque in her panic. The clashing of waves against wood joining the thundering hoofsteps of the unbridled horse adds to the air of dread like the beats of a war drum announcing something approaching something powerfulsomethingdangerous-

BOOM!

Two zhang to his left, the surface of the water below is broken with a deafening bang as a huge pillar shoots up. Macaque’s ears flatten at the sound, pressing close to the sides of his head, glamour snapping into place like rubber bands in preparation for a possible threat. Suixin Bang rematerialises just as quickly, fitting into his stance the moment he jumps onto a stone post for stability.

The green pillar curves toward the bridge. Macaque holds back a gasp upon the realisation of what he’s facing. The malachite paint on the construct is revealed to be glimmering scales, the top of it opens to great maw and billowing mane. A dragon. One that is charging toward the bridge terrifyingly fast.

Macaque’s rabbitting heart almost fails him at the sight. The warrior scrambles to put up the only protection seal his memory can offer in a rush, before mentally slapping himself over it. What kind of instant seal can hold out against that?!

Macaque slips halfway into his shadow the moment the dragon’s towers over the bridge. In the second it takes to dive under the cover of darkness, he watches it veer to the right, gaping jaws heading straight to the panicked horse - his steed which has neared the other side.

With a sickening snap, the mare is caught and crushed between teeth whose size is thrice its leg. The dragon’s maw closes cleanly around its prey, robbing the poor animal of its last whine. The momentum proceeds, the water god’s body diving back into the lake in a giant arch - a bridge in its own right crossing over the stationary bridge.

From the shadow he’s hiding in, the arc is almost unending, the movement so stretched out that the belly scales on its whiter stomach look like trees to a man riding through a forest trail on horseback. When the tip of its tail finally disappears into the water, Macaque is still crouching just below the deck’s shadow surface. If he is to hazard a guess, that thing must be at least just as big and twice as long as this whole bridge.

The following silence is a tense one. Macaque holds his breath, waiting for a growl of its title, a roar accusing him of trespassing, maybe a bellow to frighten him out of his hiding spot. None of those happens.

Gingerly, Macaque peeks his head above the shadow realm. The rest of his body slowly follows suit. The warrior stands on guard on the deck again, back touching a stone post, staff clutched tight at the front. His eye detects nothing amiss from before his intrusion, which could be attributed to the dragon’s glamour if not for the fact his ears can’t pick up anything either. A body that big should be affecting the course of the entire river, yet all he can hear is the steady, even waterflow under his feet.

The suspense is getting to him. His own wariness is feeding into itself, and every second spent without a trace of the dragon only serves to unnerve him more. What kind of presence can evade his six ears so effortlessly? Macaque’s vision lingers at a broken part of the railings from when the dragon briefly made contact with it - the only thing reminding him it was not an illusion. His eye darts around, getting more and more frantic, peering over the guardrail to inspect the water.

“Hi!”

Macaque barely suppresses a yelp at the sudden noise, swiveling around to point Suixin Bang at the threat and schooling his expression into a scowl, the glow of his staff taking on a faint hue of menacing ember.

Sitting neatly on the guardrail is the noise culprit, doubtedly the irked guardian of the river who he has unintentionally crossed. The young man before Macaque doesn’t seem any older than himself, though the bright smile makes him look a tad childish for his height. His long, white hair is only held in part by a half-bun, leaving the rest in a state of unkempt flowing behind his back, down the spring green cloak whose shade matches two streaks of hair dangling in front of his face. His hands are raised halfway up to his chin in a timid fashion, yet the excitement in his eyes is hard to miss.

“I’m Ao Lie! Nice to meet you!” Those same arms are now waving back and forth animatedly in greeting, shielding then unshielding his face each time they oscillate. Only now does Macaque notice the tiny snub of horns atop the stranger’s head. So this Ao Lie guy was truly the dragon from before.

The dragon jumps down from his perch, feet meeting the wood of the bridge’s deck elegantly. Macaque flinches back at the attempt of approach, the hold on Suixin Bang tightening. Ao Lie falters.

“Did I scare you earlier? I’m sorry! I just got reeeeally bored of eating the fishes in the river after my sixtieth years here or so. The villagers don’t herd their cattle through the bridge these days anymore even though I offered a good catch in payment…” The dragon wilts akin to a drooped houseplant, sleeves coming up again to form a nervous stance. “I thought you’d want to hang around since you didn't run off like the others?”

Macaque blinks.

“You can leave if you want. The path is clear from here to the next town from what I’ve heard. Don’t worry about me following!” The dragon scratches his head awkwardly, still spotting a clumsy smile. “I physically can’t leave the river, heh.”

In any other case, Macaque would be well on his way by now. And yet something from the admittance snags at him. His grip quivers, the staff lowering - not quite dissipated, just no longer on guard. His head tilts slightly as he parrots the phrase. “You can’t leave?”

It’s only slightly exaggerated that Macaque can say Ao Lie’s face is currently as bright as a Mid-Autumn lantern, taking in the crumb of his response with gusto. His lips split into an open-mouthed smile, widened eyes gleaming a seafoam green. He rushes forward elatedly, chirping and skipping much like a songbird. “Yes! Oh my you have such a nice voice. Do you-Ack!”

The man hasn’t got two steps in before his feet catch on a raised plank- or was it the hem of his own robe?!, planting face first onto the wooden deck. Macaque winces at the sound his head makes upon contact.

“Ow...” mumbles the dragon, slowly shuffling himself onto his hands and knees, rubbing the lump on his forehead with a sheepish laugh. His green cloak bunched awkwardly at the thighs, a rip making itself home. A second glance reveals the numerous tears scattered at the end of his robe and sleeves. “Normally there isn’t anyone around to see me fall, hehe.”

“...”

“...”

Fuck it. The chance of Macaque getting tricked is not zero but he’ll take the odds. Pointing a weapon at this guy makes him feel like an asshole anyway. Just gotta make sure I don’t get eaten and the next time I’ll avoid this spot. With that thought, the shadow untenses his shoulder, gingerly extending a hand toward the kneeling man. “You need some help?”

If it’s even possible, Ao Lie’s face lights up anew. The hand under the dragon’s long sleeve trembles as it takes Macaque’s, seemingly in disbelief at the offered contact. His green eyes almost glimmer in the dark, looking up at the shadow in something akin to awe. Macaque’s heart gives a familiar jolt at the sight.

“Thank you!”

-

“So how long have you been here again?”

“One hundred and a couple dozen years, I think! Kinda hard to keep count when I don’t have a calendar, heh. But every year on the first month of spring, the New Year celebration in the village would be loud enough to reach my ears, and on the third month I can feel the carps’ ascension at the gate of Yu, turning into fellow dragons and lesser lords to my royal heritage.” Ao Lie’s arms flail about as he starts up his rambling from the spot Macaque posits him to, sitting with his back flush to a stone post.

Macaque is facing the green-robed man in a similar position at the other side of the bridge’s deck, leaning on the stone post behind him with Suixin Bang clutched securely between his thighs and right arm, assuming a cross-legged pose. There is still a good zhang between them, enough to glean the other’s expressions and make for an escape if need be.

This earns the man another raise of brow. “Since when are you a royal?” Macaque doesn’t have to try to see the series of rips decorating the end of that green robe. Or the wild, unkempt hair. Or the utter lack of snobbish attitude.

Not to be condescending but this guy may even look worse off than Macaque himself. And that’s saying something.

Ao Lie can sense where he’s coming from, it seems, because the man rushes to confirm, “I was! Not anymore, though, so you’ll have to excuse my state as of late. I didn’t bring anything with me when I left the Grand Palace of the Western Sea. Not that I could.” His voice wanders, lost in thoughts.

“So you are…?”

“Yu Long, son of Ao Run, former Third Prince of the Western Sea, but I prefer the name Ao Lie.” He says with a wink. The question hasn’t left Macaque’s mouth before a thought emerges fully formed. It’s going to be a long story, isn’t it?

A long, long time ago, there was only one Dragon King who alone oversaw the making of rains in all the seas. It was a great and arduous job but he was even greater, always executing his power efficiently and fairly to the people under his rule. As such, he earned the respect of all the deities in the smaller water bodies, being praised as a model and the Sea Father.

He had four sons, his pride and joy. The first, capable and assertive. The second, generous and strong. The third, smart and cunning. The fourth, kind and studious. Educated as they were, the realms were not spared mischief when the four children entered adolescence. There was not a single year went by without a prank pulled, from the theft of a celestial weapon which mysteriously reappeared in Heaven’s vault every time the servants notified the higherups, to the switching of Diyu’s ink from black to gold in two days, sending the realm into a panic, nowhere was safe from the sons’ trickery. Some said the Dragon King’s hair turned white after the fifth time he had to see the aftermath of those stunts, others argued the colour was actually another gag the king couldn’t fix. Needless to say, the Dragon King was more than tired.

When the third son reached adulthood, the Dragon Kind summoned all four into the Grand Palace. “You are all grown now,” he said. “It is time you take on responsibility and relieve me of some of my burden.”

“My first son, Ao Guang, you will be given the East Sea. This water is close to the enemies’, and one must be both firm and strategic when dealing with its problems. I entrust you with my hardest fought prize.

My second eldest, Ao Qin, go forth and claim the South Sea. It is the largest and most fertile, your nature will only serve to reap more bounties within it. Do not forget to make known your strength however. Punish the ungrateful and keep the rest in line. It is the way we maintain our prestige.

My third son, Ao Shun. You are ambitious, that I can sense. But the wider seas do not need another disturbance to the rules I’ve set. I give unto you the little-explored North Sea. Prove your abilities, expand and turn this desolate place into a kingdom I will be proud of.”

The three sons bowed and received their duty. The youngest son, Ao Run, spoke up. “Dearest Father, why have I not been given an order to lessen your load? Surely you will want to make use of this son of yours.”

The Dragon King replied, “Your potential is great, but you are not yet of age, and there are many things I still wish to teach you. Stay in the Palace around this old fool, and one day you will be taking over my duty.”

Ao Run, brimming with gratitude, bowed three times and announced his intention. “Thank you, Father. When I shed my skin into my final form, I will make you proud as the Dragon King of the West Sea!”

The Dragon King and the other brothers laughed and praised his dedication. They bid their departure and each brother took their post, with Ao Run remaining in the Crystal Palace.

When the fourth prince came into adulthood, he too bid his father goodbye and set his eyes for the west. Days and months and years he travelled, but beyond the Nine Provinces, Ao Run could not see the West Sea. When he came to the southern foot of Qilian Mountain, he was exhausted. Saddened, he cried, "How can I be the King of the West Sea without the West Sea?"

Realising it must be a test of his might designed by his father and the gods, Ao Run climbed to the top of Qilian Mountain. There, he exercised his power and summoned a big storm. Lightning, thunder and rains raged for days, creating a water body with an area of 750 myriad mu and a depth of more than 6 zhang, which became the West Sea.

Overjoyed at the fruit of his labour, only made possible by the hardship he had endured through his travel, Ao Run thanked Heaven and his father. Since then, Ao Run has become the Dragon King of the West Sea.

Ao Run ruled the West Sea with wisdom and propriety. His people prospered under his reign and his children were well-schooled. As the third prince reached adulthood, Ao Run knew it was time he had to train his son for greatness.

One day, the third prince, named Ao Lie, broke the shining pearl on the top of the Grand Palace of the West in his foolishness. It was a gift from the Jade Emperor, placed there to illuminate the Palace and announce his approvance of the Dragon King of the West. To break it meant to renounce the presence of Heaven. Having learnt the news, Ao Run angrily exclaimed, “Yu Long, how dare you challenge my rule and bring the wrath of Heaven to our doorstep? To right your wrong I shall inform the Heavenly Court of your treason and cast you out of the Ao family. May you face your punishment with grace, as it is the last thing I demand from you.”

Making true of his promise, the Dragon King of the West travelled to the celestial realm and did just so. The Jade Emperor in turn sent warriors to capture the wayward prince, bringing him to Heaven to reap his sentence. They sawed off the dragon’s horns, tied him up and hanged him upside down outside the Southern Gate, where he was given three hundred strikes and left there till the day of his execution.

However, the love Ao Run had for his child was not easily diminished. The Dragon King secretly pleaded with the Jade Emperor for his son’s redemption. On the forty ninth day of Ao Lie’s sentence, his uncomfortable squirming tore open the ropes of his binding. The former prince fell down to earth, into a stream where the water was so clear that the birds frequently mistook their reflections as their own kind.

Slowly recovering from his wounds, Ao Lie came to an understanding of his trial. The spells which stopped him from escaping the Southern Gate had not been lifted, instead binding him to Yingchou Stream. To attempt breaking the spells and returning home would be a dishonor to his family.

He must stay there, making a name out of himself so that when the time comes, his family will arrive, blessed with Heaven’s decree to rightfully free him from his post and welcome him back to the Ao lineage.

-

-and that’s how I got here!” Ao Lie cheerily exclaims, breaking out of his solemn narration. The smile plastered on his face struggles to reach its former height.

Macaque, previously captured in the tale, hesitantly asks, “And how’s your work going?"

Ao Lie beams. “Pretty steady, I may say! Frequently I would transform into my dragon form and lay myself along the length of the stream, shuffling around until the width of the stream expanded. That was how it’s currently river-sized! Then the humans came and built a bridge over the river. If I continued my work, the bridge would be rendered useless. So I’m content with stopping the expansion and opting to help them when they ask for me. Ten years ago a family I helped cross the flood built me an altar just off the other end of this bridge. At this rate I will only need another century to have my own shrine!”

The warrior is overcome by a rush of overlapping emotions. Pity, to witness such a low a prince can be brought down to by desertion? Sympathy, at the resemblances of Ao Lie’s and Wukong’s confinement, the one Macaque is on his quest to solve? The seed of hope, of doubt, and an underlying anger instead prompt him to inquire:

“How did you know of your father’s plan?” More quietly, he adds, “You said he secretly pleaded with the Jade Emperor, was it proved? How are you so sure this whole thing is a trial to surmount?”

Ao Lie tilts his head, bringing one tattered sleeve to cover his mouth as he replies, his eyes drooping in a fragile laugh. “What else could I believe?”

And it strikes Macaque like a gong, that the nature of the tragedy unfolding before him is hope. It is what keeps him contained, and it too, is what keeps him sane. One hundred years of solitude and going with only a one-sided faith to fall back to.

In this sense, Ao Lie is no different from Macaque and Wukong’s past selves.

Sympathy turns into empathy, Macaque shakily asks, unsure of how to break Ao Lie’s delusion, and whether he should do so, “Did you intend to break the pearl?”

“Of course not. There was an intruder in my home, you see, one who planned to steal my father’s treasured gift. In my haste to take down the thief, my aim was off and my power hit the side of the Shining Pearl. It was no excuse though. Perhaps control is one of the things I ought to work on in this period of trial.” Pausing for a moment, he points at the cracked railing where his first appearance damaged the structure, looking at the chipped stone in sadness. “Just now I broke a part of the railings with my dragon form, so maybe there is still a long way to go, heh.”

They are quiet after that.

“I have a friend,” Macaque says, breaking the glum silence. “I’m actually on my way to free him from his imprisonment by the gods.” Macaque is not sure why he’s sharing this. Parts of him wrestle between giving the dragon more hope and tearing it down, setting him on Macaque’s path. But what good would it do? Macaque knows the price he’s paying and the shadow has nothing left to alleviate the pain or the grief that knowledge would carry into another heart.

In the end, he settles on simple truth, one of his own. Perhaps his soul has been longing for fellowship this whole time, a person who shares his plight, who reminds him of both himself and what he’s fighting for. It’s selfish to drop the seed of idea onto fertile soil, but Macaque has gotten greedy in his years of solitude.

Ao Lie stills, surprised at his openness and mayhaps his goal. Just as quickly, he schools his expressions into curiosity. “What is he like?”

“He’s strong, and annoying,” Macaque says, crinkling his nose. “Proudly cheeky, too, but he has a good heart. He’s easily sidetracked, and has a habit of underestimating the troubles he got himself into, but he’s also kind and caring and soft in ways I never stop marvelling at.” The shadow finds himself speaking his mind more easily than he ever thought he would. With a mental start, he realises this is the first time he recounts his deepest-held affections toward Wukong to another person. The thought brings a wistful smile to his lips. “He once said my presence completed his soul. I feel like he makes up more of me than myself.”

When Macaque refocuses, he is met with Ao Lie studying him. The dragon levels his gaze at the shadow with a slight tilt of his head. A soft crease makes its way onto his lips, part amusement, part admiration. “Sounds like you both mean a lot to one another.”

Macaque turns his face to hide the blush which has crept up on him at the comment, his mouth quivering to hold back an embarrassed grin. “‘Spose so,” he mumbles, the admittance fanning the flame on his cheeks.

This prompts Ao Lie to giggle out loud. “Tell me more about him! Your friend sounds like quite a character.” The dragon leans forward with stars in his eyes. Macaque has always been weak for those.

“Well for once, his name is Wukong…”

“-and that’s why we are banned from Lantern City forever. Or until its semi-immortal lord croaks and no one there can remember our faces or crimes.” Macaque finishes his story on a high note. Pretending to be executed was fun and no one could convince Wukong otherwise, especially when the monkey had managed to rope his friend along and pull off the grandest prank that lord would ever see. Served him right for being an asshole, really.

Beside him, Ao Lie is clapping in applause. The dragon has slowly moved closer during their story-swapping session with the excuse of wanting to hear him more clearly. Macaque has not objected to it, so now they are sitting next to each other with the last handspan between their shoulders. If he tries, he could feel the warmth of the dragon’s breath tickling the fur on his neck.

“You two remind me so much of my sister! She and I used to sneak out and go to human festivals all the time when we were young. It’s been an age since we last met. Well, if you ever come across her, say hello for me, won’t you?” Ao Lie cheerily comments.

The remark gives Macaque a mental jolt. Looking around, he can see the signs of dawn. The sky has lightened into a shade of soft blue, tints of bronze and gold paint the underside of faraway clouds. His surroundings become clearer, and so do the sounds of bugs worming their way around beneath the forest floor.

It’s time to go.

Unsurprisingly, he finds himself with reluctant feet. The answer to that sudden urge to stay around keeps eluding him, though. A mix of attachment, fondness and protectiveness, perhaps. A glance at Ao Lie’s downturned eyes makes him realise his new-found friend might feel the same.

“You remind me a little bit of him actually,” Macaque says. It could just be wistful talk, but looking at Ao Lie - at his enraptured eyes, the tilt of his head - rekindles the ember of longing ever burning in the shadow’s heart. “You would get along well with him, were you to meet.”

He can already imagine it: An energized Wukong jumping around a mile a minute, with Ao Lie’s easygoing self next to him, smiling in kind with Macaque’s exasperated attempts to tamp down the King’s wild spirit into something more manageable for the human village they are trying to blend in, keyword being try. The sound of Wukong’s boisterous laughter would go nicely with Ao Lie’s suppressed giggles, he thinks.

Again, he is met with the dragon’s wide eyes, whose corners quickly wrinkle into lines of soft joy. Ao Lie whispers back, low enough for only Macaque to hear. “It must be true, then, since I already have his best friend’s approval.”

When they are finally standing up straight, facing each other with Ao Lie’s back to the old pathway and Macaque’s to the road he’s setting on, the sun has dyed the horizon a pretty coral. The want to linger that bubbles up is almost palpable, but he knows this is where they must part.

The dragon is the first to utter his goodbye. “Well, it’s been great spending time with you. Wish you the best of luck on your quest! Pay me a visit when you’re done, will you? Or I can come over to your place myself when I am free.” Ao Lie cheekily says, A hand raises toward Macaque but the dragon seems to think better of it, as it stops halfway into a wave.

Macaque nods. “Likewise. Wukong will be thrilled to see you.” In the presence of an upcoming departure, he finds himself short for words. His right hand comes up to grab at the front of his own shirt.

“See you later?”

“See you later.” At last, he turns, walking toward the end of the bridge where he had intended to cross before the dusk of yesterday. His grip has moved to the crude knot tying his cape together, holding onto it as if to look for warmth in his billowing cloak.

“Wait!”

That stops him right in his tracks. Turning around, his heart almost skips a beat as the image of a younger Wukong superimposed on Ao Lie’s bashful smile, a Wukong who was still in his earlier years of trying to win over Macaque’s affections. He is holding out his closed fist, voice shying on a mumble. “I want to give you something to help you on the journey ahead, if you’ll allow me to.”

Macaque offers him a curious look. The dragon, seeing a lack of hostility, widens his smile as he opens his hand.

Resting plainly in the middle of Ao Lie’s palm is a single tooth - a fang upon closer examination. It is about the length of his thumb and just about that thick, with a curved shape and dull end. A hole has been drilled in the root to allow a simple thread going through, fashioning it into a necklace.

“Us dragons have a habit of holding onto our baby teeth, since any part of a holy creature can be infused with power. Depending on the type of dragon and the intent when casting the enchantment, it can be a good luck charm, a protection seal, or an instant spell imbued by the dragon’s magic,” Ao Lie explains. More sheepishly, he adds, “I’ve always wanted to pass mine onto a cherished one, a niece or nephew perhaps, but it would be my delight were you to accept my humble trinket.”

Macaque, more than touched, silently extends his hand toward the gift. The moment their hands touch, a rush of electricity runs up his arm, surprising his skin with the suddenness of warmth. It is the second time they truly make contact.

Macaque’s palm curls as it wraps around the token, Ao Lie’s palm curls into his. When he glances up, the other’s gaze is knowing.

“I really hope to see you again, dear friend.”

About one li from the end of the bridge, Macaque encounters an altar. It’s a small, unassuming thing made of hardwood, with a bowl for incense and a dish for offerings. Inside rests a little dragon statue carved out of Nanmu wood, sootier in places where incense smoke rises to meet the god it’s burned for.

Golden sunlight has peeked through the foliage to shine on the blue decorations of the porcelain dish - a dragon chasing a pearl. There are some smudges on its surface, likely from the fruit offerings which have been carried away by animals.

From the depth of his pocket, Macaques fishes out two coins.

The copper makes a chiming sound upon contact with the porcelain. Shadow falls over the altar for a moment.

A smile, and the shadow retreats. Landed squarely on the dish are the two coins lying at rest. One shows yáng, the other yīn.