Time passed, drawn out like a thread of gold that nothing yet had broken.
Eighty years had gone by since the night when the Monkey King had raised his eyes to the stars beside Houzi.
The seasons still turned like a great and gentle wheel—spring, summer, autumn, winter—and then again the circle began anew. The young were born, grew bold, vanished into the forest, and others took their place. The mountain, steadfast, changed not; yet within that unchanging frame, there was but one who truly remained the same.
The Monkey King.
His golden coat had lost none of its sheen. His step was supple and sure, the very gait of youth unspent. His eyes shone with a tranquil, almost unearthly light—but he had not grown a hair's breadth since the day of his crowning.
The others watched him with admiration mingled with quiet awe, for they did not grasp the secret that kept him beyond the reach of time. To them he had become more than king: a living legend.
Each spring he found Houzi beside the great fire, seated upon his familiar rock. Each year the old master, his father in spirit, stooped a little more, his movements slower, his beard whitening toward pure snow. Their words had grown rare, but each one carried the weight of an offering between two souls bound by fate.
One morning, the Monkey King paused before the cave where Houzi still slept. Outside, light filtered softly through dew-damp branches. He closed his eyes, listened to the river beneath the bridge, to the wind threading the pines, and whispered to himself:
— A hundred summers, a hundred winters… I change not. Yet he whitens.
The mountain kept its silence. Only a leaf fell, spinning to the ground before vanishing into the breath of a passing breeze.
Then for the first time, the King felt that time, though it spared him, never truly ceased to move. Though his body knew no age, weariness had begun its slow work within him.
Now, at the edge of autumn, when the leaves wore their brightest garments before winter's first sigh, the tribe gathered. A vast fire was raised, built of trunks still sweating sap; and the flames, tall tongues of gold, spoke upward to the serene night.
The scent of burning pine filled the air; resin sang, bursting into clear beads, and sparks climbed toward the stars like a swarm of bold fireflies.
They brought what the mountain had given: hard-shelled nuts, river-washed roots, fruits forgotten by the season, roasted in the warm ash. They laughed loud; they jostled kindly; each wished to tell the finest tale while the fire still held its dominion. Below, the Cave of the Water Curtain hummed its deep murmur, and the iron bridge kept memory of many feet.
The Monkey King sat not far from the blaze, bright and merry, his fur shining honey-gold in the firelight. He beckoned the young to make way for the elders, for this was the hour of stories only told on great feast nights.
An old—very old—macaque, whose snowy whiskers framed a face of dusk, lifted his paw to call for silence. His voice, at first hoarse, cleared like a mountain stream as he began to speak:
— Hearken, children of the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. The world is not one single path, but three vast realms that behold one another and never meet.
He pointed to the earth with his palm, then toward the unseen sea beyond the horizon, and at last, to the vault of heaven.
— The Earth, first, that bears our steps and those of every beast. There reign strength and fierce wisdom: lions with eyes of copper, tigers that move like velvet, elephants whose memory is a temple. In ages blessed, it is said, appears the Qilin, unicorn of harmony—none may chain its kindness, none may buy it, and its mere coming heralds an age of justice.
— The Seas, next, though ye see them not from here, yet they touch us through the breath of rain and the taste of salt when mists arise. Beneath their shifting vaults slumber the Long, dragons of the water. They waken with the season of storms, drawing the cords of the tides, carrying lightning like rings of light. They are lords of the waves and bow only to the decree of Heaven.
— And the Sky, last: invisible palaces, courts where the Immortals go and come; noble birds that trace their circles therein. At the highest soars the Fenghuang, whom some call Phoenix: when it sings, the air is balanced; when it burns, it is reborn purer still, reconciling light and shadow in its very plumage.
At these words, the young exchanged dazzled glances; they repeated Qilin, Long, Fenghuang as if tasting new fruit. The storyteller smiled, and his tone grew grave without losing its gentleness:
— Each realm has its law, and all are visited by the order from above, which the wise name the Will of Heaven. When too much splendour rends the balance, things are recalled in turn: now by storm, now by drought, now by long silence wherein one relearns measure. Sometimes even the creatures themselves tear at one another in endless wars.
— But not we! cried a young she-monkey, clapping her hands. Here no lords of men command us; no claws of beasts hunt us; no dragons drown us, nor imperial birds subdue us!
Laughter flared; palms beat upon the ground to mark the rhythm of a song. Another, grinning, shouted:
— We bow to no kings of men, no masters of beast, no sovereigns of the air! Who then shall give us law but our own customs?
And all the troop chanted as one: Free we were born; free we live!
The King laughed heartily, for he loved that joy which slips between the ribs and warms like a new skin. Yet a small crease touched his brow when the old one went on, drawing the fire back to the centre of their gaze:
— Know this, children: if we dwell in peace, it may be not because Heaven shelters us, but because it forgets us. The Mountain is a quiet fold in the great robe of the world; it escapes the eye, like a brook hidden under moss. It is neither glory nor disgrace: it is an admirable absence of concern.
— Forgotten… whispered one. Is that ill?
— Better forgotten than judged, answered an old she-monkey, winking. So long as no mighty gaze falls upon us, we taste life without debt or dread.
They laughed again, but softer. The flames sank a little; the embers took up their turn to speak in red murmurs. Then another tale was called for, and the old macaque, pleased by the listening, bowed and changed his tone.
— Since your ears are keen, let us speak of the surest weighing in the world: the one unseen by all, yet met by all. There is, in the underworld, a judge of solemn court, whom men call Yanluo Wang, and we more simply name Yama—lord of the Hells, keeper of souls.
Some of the young feigned to shiver, then laughed. The storyteller smiled in knowing play.
— Fear him not: he is no beast, but a right law. When the flesh falls away like the old bark of a tree, when the breath leaves the chest, the soul—so fine that no net may catch it—descends for a time into that palace without windows. There Yama holds his scales; he weighs what life has laid in each being, heaviness and lightness mingled. And by the mark left upon them, the soul takes the road again: now beast, now man, now long rest, now harsher path. Thus turns the wheel, and thus balance is restored.
They nodded, murmured assent; some elders whispered that it was well said. A jest was tossed to lighten the air: a young one climbed a stump, puffed his cheeks, and played the stern judge by knocking on a hollow nut. Great laughter followed; small fears love a mask.
The Monkey King did not laugh. It was neither fear nor sorrow—rather a question that had yet no name. He watched the flame, thoughtful; then, with the gentleness of a child not wishing to offend, he asked:
— Does he judge also… that which does not fall?
The silence was thin, like a light leaf; at first none felt its weight.
— What mean you, little king? asked the old she with clear eyes.
He hesitated, searching for words as one feels for a stone beneath the water:
— If the soul departs when the body goes… what becomes of that which does not go? And if all must end to begin anew, how ends that which scarcely changes?
Some of the young laughed, taking it for too fine a metaphor. The old teller frowned slightly, and his gaze, kind yet heavy, turned to Houzi, who sat apart. The elder master, long silent, lowered his eyes to his palms and read there an answer he did not speak.
— Each one, said the teller carefully, receives his measure. Most of us come and go like rain and blossom; that is our way. It is told that some—immortals, sages, or saints—escape the wheel to serve the order of the world otherwise. But such are tales from elsewhere.
— Tales from elsewhere… repeated the King, tasting the word as though new upon his tongue. He raised his head to the vault above, where heaven covered the mountain with perfect velvet. A thought, thin as a blade, came to him: What if, beyond, all had changed while we remained untouched? What if the phoenix no longer sang? If the seas had learned new angers?
— Ho! cried a young baboon, jolting him from his reverie. Do not freeze our blood with "ifs"! Here the river runs, the stone house holds fast, and our fires never lack kindling!
Laughter returned; they swung a torch till it whistled, they clapped for the sparks. Joy came back, that good companion, and embraced the gathering once more. But for the King, something had shifted—by a finger's breadth, no more, yet none could have seen it. He felt in his bones, like a chill without cold, that his life would not quite walk in step with theirs.
Houzi came near, silent. He sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, in the manner of elders who know how to speak without words.
— Thou art thinking, he said softly.
— I am thinking, said the King.
— And what seest thou, when thou thinkest?
The King was long without reply. He followed a stubborn spark that climbed higher than all the rest before dying.
— I see that we live in joy because no eye seeks us. I see that our mountain is a hidden nook, and there is honour in its being forgotten. Yet if Heaven looks not upon us… when I lose thee, to whom shall I beg thy return?
Houzi closed his eyes, and a smile—so gentle—passed upon his worn mouth.
— When the hour comes, my little king, there is no need to ask. One plucks not fruit ere it is ripe; one holds not the leaf that must fall. Things right in themselves have no enemies.
— Then… thou wilt go?
— I shall go. As goes all that hath loved more than it hath owned. And thou shalt remain.
The King found no words; he bowed his head, and unknowing, his tail beat a small, stubborn rhythm on the ground. The fire cracked, grew low; a log collapsed in a hush of embers. The air cooled by a breath, as if night had drawn a fold of its cloak.
The tribe, unworried, took again to play, to contests, to songs. They mimicked the cries of royal birds; they drew dragons with long whiskers in the dust; they named the Qilin in voices of theatre. All was lovely—so lovely the King felt gratitude to the tips of his fingers.
Yet he lifted his hand toward the dwindling flame, as one protects a fragile secret. And in that trembling light he knew, though none had told him, that he—born of a stone egg fed by sun and moon—might never fall as others fall. He would see the seasons turn a hundred times and a hundred more; he would bear within him the unchanging part he had sought in story—and that, suddenly, was what weighed upon him.
— All things are reborn, he murmured low, almost to himself. And I… shall I ever sleep?
None answered. The wood sighed. A shooting star cleft the night like a silver thread and was gone, far, far beyond the pines and the legends.
Then the Monkey King drew closer to Houzi—not for aid, for none exists for such matters, but to share warmth while warmth may pass from skin to skin. And the feast went on, bright and kind, while within him was born, in silence, the first gravity: not fear of punishment, but knowledge that one day, this fire would find no more hearts to warm.
Thus ended the night when they spoke of the realms of Earth, Sea, and Sky, and of the judge Yama. The mountain remained untouched; Heaven, perhaps, saw nothing. Yet the King's gaze had changed its hue—and that was enough to make the world, from that moment, no longer quite the same.
Abel Maria : Royal Road & Webnovel