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Bajie dipped his third bowl of rice and sat down with it at the table.
Sanzang was already finished, having eaten a modest portion before the rest of his bowl became Bajie's second. The pig had only ventured so far as to steal his master's food after both Wukong and Wujing had confirmed with a vicious snarl that Bajie wouldn't be receiving any rice from either of them.
After one case of diverted attention, followed swiftly by a greedy hand, Sanzang's meal was over.
That was all right, he thought. He'd eaten enough anyway.
Now Wukong, having seen what happens to unattended bowls, was scarfing his food down while glaring at Bajie the entire time. The pig, to his minimal credit, had taken to sweet-talking Wujing in an attempt to make the bowl switch hands.
He was seconds away from getting another snarl instead.
Bajie gave a compliment he must have been particularly confident with, because as he was giving it, he snuck his hand under Wujing's line of sight and snaked it towards the bowl.
Wujing pulled his food away from the pig and snarled, meaning that if Sanzang was a betting man, or carried money at all for that matter, he'd be significantly richer.
The snarl kickstarted a strange chain of events that somehow ended in a tussle between his second and third disciples. Before Sanzang could open his mouth to berate them for fighting, their sparring was over, and the bowl lay upside down on the ground, rice scattered in every direction.
“Dammit, Wujing!” Bajie shouted. “Now nobody gets to eat it!”
“Better no one than you,” Wujing retorted.
Sanzang stared at the rice on the floor for longer than was probably appropriate as a shudder went up his spine. Wukong noticed this strange behavior and yelled at his junior disciple. “Idiot! This kind family has shown us great hospitality, and you have the nerve to spill their food! Clean it up!”
The pig grumbled at the command and stooped down to clean up the mess.
“No,” Sanzang said. “Let me.”
His disciples watched with intense fascination as he knelt down and picked up every single grain of rice off the ground, placing them in his hand. He stood and went to the door where they'd last seen their host. “I am going to apologize,” he said. “Don't follow me.”
As he left the room, he heard a quiet “now look what you've done” that was probably aimed at Bajie.
On the other side of the door, their host chopped vegetables and tossed them into a large, boiling kettle. “Venerable sir,” the monk said, kowtowing as soon as the man turned around. “I beg your forgiveness. We have repaid your hospitality with folly and spilled some of the food you so graciously gave us.”
“Oh, that's not important.”
Sanzang pried his face off the floor to look at him. “It's very important,” he said. “We shouldn't be so rude as to waste the meal you worked hard for.”
“I think you might be blowing this way out of proportion,” the man said. He looked at the amount in Sanzang's hand. “It's not even half a bowl of rice.”
“But is it not shameful to spill even a grain?”
“Accidents happen,” the man said with a shrug. “If it bothers you so much, I can feed it to my chickens.”
The monk's face brightened at the idea. “Please,” he said. “Allow me.”
“If you insist,” the man said. He pointed to another door on the other side of the room. Sanzang stepped through it and found himself in the coop with the chickens. He pinched small amounts of rice and scattered them so every chicken had at least a little to peck at.
Once his hand was empty, he dusted off his robe and went back inside. The kitchen was empty, so he stepped through the other door to find his disciples.
“There!” He heard in a voice strangely similar to his own as he opened the door. He looked up and saw his own reflection crowded next to his disciples. “I told you he was a demon!”
“What?” He asked. He looked down as his disciples grabbed their weapons. His hands had turned rough and purple, with claws that could rip a person apart. His clothes looked exactly like the ones their host wore. Hadn't he just been wearing his robes?
He looked up to see that the three were lunging towards him. “Wait!”
Wujing's staff slammed into his shoulder, throwing him into the wall and jostling his brain around the sides of his skull. Bajie tried to stab down with the prongs of his rake, which Sanzang scrambled back just in time to avoid. “Stop!” He cried. “It's me!”
Either they didn't hear him or they didn't care, because Wukong took his imitation by the wrist and escorted him outside. The fake monk sent him an icy smile as the door closed behind them.
Wujing struck again, slicing Sanzang's cheek, and Bajie followed the attack with his own strike to the face. Sanzang held up his hands just in time for the rake to pierce the flesh of his arm instead of gouging out his eyes. He screamed at the pain.
Wujing grabbed the front of his shirt and flung him towards Bajie, who slammed the blunt end of his rake into the side of his head, throwing him into the wall again. He staggered on his feet, watching their blurry images flank him as they went in for another strike that would probably be their last.
The door flew open, and another blurry figure entered. It was small and hunched over, holding a long staff.
It must be Wukong.
The other disciples grabbed Sanzang's arms and held him in place, giving their elder brother a chance at the final blow.
As Wukong raised his cudgel, Sanzang defended himself the only way he knew how. He whispered the band-tightening spell.
Wukong fell onto the floor, clutching his head and howling. Bajie noticed Sanzang's rambling and put a hand tight around his throat to choke him. Wukong began to recover immediately.
As Sanzang struggled for air, Wukong stood up, rubbing his head, but he didn't lift his cudgel again. Instead, he stepped towards his airlocked master. His eyes widened as a flash of gold washed across them, and he ripped Bajie's hand off his throat. “Stop,” he said. “That's our master.”
“Have you gone blind?” Bajie asked. He shook Sanzang violently back and forth, as if the movement would make Wukong see better. All it did was make him cough as he tried to regain his breath. “This is clearly a demon.”
Wukong wrenched their hands off of his arms, and their master collapsed at their feet. Wukong knelt down, muttering a spell, and Sanzang looked like himself again. “My sight is better than both of yours combined, so listen to me next time.”
He felt arms under his waist, lifting him off the floor and draping him over a table as his disciples gathered around.
“So where's the demon?”
“Outside, probably.” Sanzang heard fabric tearing and felt warm cloth wrapping around his arm, stinging the places where the rake had stabbed him. He winced. “I think the demon switched their appearances and tricked us into attacking our master instead. Here, help me.”
They propped him up, and taking advantage of Sanzang's inability to say no, Wukong untied his cassock and tugged the robe off of his shoulders. He pulled the robe down to his waist, and Sanzang leaned forward, resting his forehead on the monkey's shoulder. It was all he had the energy to do.
Bajie whistled in surprise. “We really did a number on him,” he said.
“What did you expect? He's a human,” Wukong said. “Get me some water?”
Someone behind him hummed, and soon a cold, wet cloth pressed against his back. He gave a shaky breath as the pressure made pain flare up in his bruised torso.
The front door of the house creaked open. Sanzang felt Wukong shift to look in that direction. “Brothers,” the monkey said.
“Yeah?”
“Beat that sucker up.”