"The seeker who finds the path must still walk it—and the walking is always harder than the finding."
The road west stretched like a ribbon of dust through lands the Monkey King had never imagined.
He walked for weeks, then months, then longer than he could measure. The seasons changed around him—warm winds giving way to cold rains, golden leaves falling from trees only to be replaced by green shoots in the spring. He passed through lands where the people were kind and lands where they chased him with stones and curses. He slept in trees and caves and once, memorably, in the hollow trunk of a giant banyan tree that housed a family of sleeping bats.
He learned as he walked.
The humans he met taught him new words, new customs, new ways of thinking. In one village, he learned about the gods they worshipped—beings who lived in the sky and controlled the weather, the harvest, the fate of men. In another, he learned about their philosophers—wise men who sat under trees and taught that the secret to life was not immortality but acceptance, not eternal existence but living fully in each moment.
The Monkey King listened to all of it. He considered all of it. And he rejected most of it.
Gods who demanded worship? He had been a king himself—he knew that true power did not need to beg for attention. Philosophers who preached acceptance of death? They had never watched someone they loved grow cold and empty. They had never felt the stone in their belly grow so heavy that it threatened to crush them.
No. He would find the immortals. He would learn their secrets. He would conquer death itself, not because he feared it—though he did, more than he would admit—but because he refused to accept it.
The stone in his belly demanded nothing less.
Three years passed.
The Monkey King had lost count of the days, but he knew the seasons, and he had seen three full cycles of planting and harvest since leaving the fishing village. His fur had grown longer, thicker, marked by streaks of white that had not been there before. His body had hardened—muscles lean and tough from constant walking, constant climbing, constant survival.
He had crossed mountains so high that the air grew thin and his head spun. He had crossed rivers so wide that he had to build rafts—three of them now, each one better than the last—to reach the other side. He had crossed deserts where the sun burned by day and the cold bit by night, where water was more precious than gold and he had learned to dig in dry riverbeds for moisture hidden beneath the sand.
And still he walked west.
The people he met now spoke languages he did not know. The customs were stranger still—clothing made of silk instead of bark, houses built of stone instead of wood, foods that he could not identify and sometimes chose not to try. He had become a ghost, a legend, a story that parents told their children: If you wander too far from the village, the monkey-man will get you.
He found this both amusing and sad. He was not a monster. He was a seeker. But humans, he had learned, feared what they did not understand. And they understood so very little.
It was on a spring morning, in the fourth year of his journey, that the Monkey King saw the mountain.
He had been walking through a valley—green and peaceful, with streams running clear and birds singing in the trees—when he looked up and saw it rising in the distance. It was not like the other mountains he had crossed. Those had been ordinary—tall, yes, and difficult, but ordinary. This one was different.
This one glowed.
The light was faint—so faint that at first he thought it was a trick of the morning sun. But as he walked closer, as the valley gave way to foothills and the foothills began to rise toward the peak, he saw that it was no trick. The mountain itself seemed to radiate a soft, golden light, as if it were made of something more than stone and earth.
Spirit Tower Mountain.
It had to be.
The Monkey King felt his heart leap. Four years. Four years of walking, of hunger and thirst and loneliness and fear. Four years of questioning whether he would ever find what he sought. And now, here it was—rising before him like a promise, like an answer to a prayer he had never known how to make.
He began to climb.
The mountain was strange.
The trees that grew on its slopes were ancient—so ancient that their trunks were wider than houses, their roots sinking deep into the stone as if they had been there since the world began. The air was different too—cleaner, sweeter, carrying scents that the Monkey King could not identify but that made his heart feel lighter than it had in years.
And there were signs of life—not just animal life, but something else. Paths that were too straight to be natural. Stones arranged in patterns that seemed almost like writing. Carvings on trees that he could not read but that filled him with a strange sense of peace.
Someone lived here. Someone wise. Someone who had taken the time to shape this mountain into something more than just a mountain.
The Monkey King followed the paths upward, climbing higher and higher, until the air grew thin and the trees gave way to bare rock. And there, just below the peak, he found it.
A cave.
It was not like the Water Curtain Cave—not hidden behind a waterfall, not filled with the sounds of chattering monkeys. This cave was open to the sky, its entrance marked by two stone pillars carved with characters that glowed faintly in the afternoon light. Above the entrance, more characters were carved into the rock—eight of them, each one pulsing with that same golden light.
The Monkey King stared at them, wishing he could read. He had learned many human languages in his travels, but this writing was like nothing he had ever seen—ancient and powerful, full of meaning that he could feel but not understand.
He stood at the entrance for a long time, uncertain. Should he enter? Should he call out? Should he wait?
While he hesitated, a voice spoke from inside the cave.
"Enter."
The voice was old—older than any voice the Monkey King had ever heard. It carried weight, depth, the accumulated wisdom of centuries. And yet it was gentle too, warm as a fire on a cold night, welcoming as a mother's arms.
The Monkey King entered.
The cave was not a cave.
This was the first thing the Monkey King noticed—that the word "cave" was too small, too simple for what lay before him. The entrance opened into a vast chamber, but the chamber opened into a courtyard, and the courtyard opened into a garden, and the garden opened into halls and rooms and corridors that seemed to stretch forever.
It was a monastery—though the Monkey King did not know that word yet. A place where immortals lived and taught, where seekers came to learn, where the secrets of heaven and earth were passed from master to student.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were immortals.
They walked through the gardens, sat beneath the trees, meditated on stone platforms overlooking valleys that seemed to float in mist. Some were old, with long white beards and faces lined by centuries. Others were young—ageless, really, with smooth skin and bright eyes that held the light of knowledge. They wore robes of white and gold, and when they moved, they seemed to glide rather than walk.
The Monkey King stood frozen, staring. After four years of searching, after crossing oceans and mountains and deserts, he had finally found them.
The immortals.
A young man approached him—young in appearance, at least, though his eyes held something ancient.
"You have come far," the young man said. His voice was calm, musical, like water flowing over stones.
"Very far," the Monkey King agreed. "From across the Eastern Sea. From Flower-Fruit Mountain. From—" He stopped, realizing he was babbling. "I have come to learn. I have come to find the immortal called Subodhi. I have come to seek the Way."
The young man smiled. "Then you have come to the right place. Follow me."
He turned and walked deeper into the monastery. The Monkey King followed, his heart pounding with excitement and fear and hope all mixed together.
They passed through courtyards where immortals practiced movements so slow they seemed frozen, yet so powerful that the air itself seemed to bend around them. They passed through halls lined with scrolls—thousands of them, tens of thousands, containing knowledge that would take lifetimes to read. They passed through gardens where flowers bloomed in colors the Monkey King had never seen, where streams flowed with water that sparkled like liquid light.
Finally, they came to a chamber at the heart of the monastery. It was simple—just a room with a stone floor, stone walls, and a single cushion on which an old man sat.
But what an old man.
He was ancient—more ancient than Memory, more ancient than the oldest tree on Flower-Fruit Mountain, more ancient than anything the Monkey King had ever seen. His beard flowed like a white river down his chest. His eyebrows hung down past his cheeks. His skin was like old parchment, wrinkled and weathered, but his eyes—his eyes were young. Bright and sharp and full of laughter, as if he had seen everything the universe had to offer and found it endlessly amusing.
The young man bowed deeply. "Master, a seeker has come. From across the Eastern Sea. He seeks the Way."
The old man—Subodhi, for it could be no other—looked at the Monkey King. His eyes traveled up and down, taking in the golden fur, the bright eyes, the tail that twitched with nervous energy.
"A monkey," he said. His voice was the one the Monkey King had heard at the cave entrance—old and warm and full of power. "We do not often get monkeys here."
"I am not just any monkey," the Monkey King said, then immediately regretted it. He had not meant to sound boastful.
But Subodhi laughed—a sound like wind chimes, like falling water, like the first rain after a long drought.
"No," he agreed. "No, you are not. I can see that." He gestured to the floor before him. "Sit. Tell me your story."
The Monkey King sat. And for the first time in four years, he told someone everything.
He told Subodhi about his birth from the stone, about the beams of light that had shot from his eyes to the Jade Emperor's palace. He told him about the Water Curtain Cave, about his three centuries as king, about Grandfather's death and the stone that had grown in his belly ever since. He told him about the raft, the sea, the storms, the fishing village, the old man who had directed him west. He told him about the four years of walking, the lands he had crossed, the people he had met, the things he had learned.
Through it all, Subodhi listened. His bright eyes never left the Monkey King's face. His expression shifted—now amused, now sad, now thoughtful—but he did not interrupt, did not ask questions, did nothing but listen.
When the Monkey King finished, there was silence in the chamber.
Then Subodhi spoke.
"You seek immortality," he said. "You seek to conquer death. You seek to learn the secrets that have been hidden since before the world began."
"Yes," the Monkey King said. "That is why I came."
Subodhi nodded slowly. "Many come seeking these things. Few are worthy to receive them." He paused, studying the Monkey King with those ancient-young eyes. "You may be worthy. Or you may not. Time will tell."
The Monkey King's heart leaped. "You will teach me?"
"I will consider teaching you." Subodhi smiled. "There is a difference. First, you must prove yourself. You must show me that you are serious, that you are patient, that you are willing to do the work. Immortality is not a gift—it is a achievement. It must be earned."
"I will earn it," the Monkey King said. "Whatever it takes, I will earn it."
"Good words," Subodhi said. "But words are easy. We will see what your actions show." He gestured to the young man who still waited by the door. "Take him to the student quarters. Give him a broom and a bucket. He will begin by cleaning."
The Monkey King blinked. "Cleaning?"
"You are surprised?" Subodhi's eyes twinkled. "You expected to be taught secrets on your first day? To receive immortality as a gift, simply because you asked?" He shook his head. "The first lesson of the Way is humility. You will learn humility by sweeping floors and carrying water. When you have learned that, perhaps we will move on to other things."
The Monkey King opened his mouth to argue—he was a king, after all, a ruler of thousands—but something in Subodhi's eyes stopped him. Those eyes had seen everything. They had seen kings and emperors, gods and demons. They had seen creatures far more powerful than a monkey from a mountain, and they had watched them all learn the same lesson.
He closed his mouth and bowed.
"Yes, Master."
The work was hard.
The Monkey King had never swept a floor in his life—on Flower-Fruit Mountain, the monkeys simply let the leaves and dust accumulate, then moved to a new spot when it became too messy. He had never carried water—streams and pools had always been there, waiting to be drunk from. He had never cooked, never cleaned, never done any of the endless tasks that kept the monastery running.
But he learned.
The first week was the hardest. His back ached from bending over with the broom. His arms burned from carrying buckets. His hands, which had spent centuries climbing trees and picking fruit, blistered and calloused from unfamiliar labor. At night, he fell onto his sleeping mat and lay there, too exhausted even to dream.
But he did not complain. He did not argue. He did not demand more interesting work. He swept and carried and cleaned and cooked, and through it all, he watched and listened and learned.
He learned that the immortals were not all-knowing. They made mistakes. They forgot things. They argued with each other about philosophy and technique and the proper way to brew tea. They were not gods—they were just beings who had lived long enough to learn things that ordinary beings did not know.
He learned that the Way was not a single path but many. Some immortals focused on meditation, sitting for days at a time in perfect stillness. Others practiced martial arts, moving through forms so complex that they seemed like dances. Still others studied texts, reading scrolls that had been passed down for millennia, memorizing words that contained the accumulated wisdom of ages.
And he learned that Subodhi watched him constantly. Not obviously—the old master never seemed to look directly at him. But the Monkey King could feel those eyes on him, evaluating, judging, deciding whether he was worthy.
He swept harder. He carried more. He stayed up later and woke up earlier. He did everything that was asked of him and then looked for more to do.
And slowly, very slowly, he began to understand.
Seven years passed.
The Monkey King did not count them at first—he was too busy working, too focused on proving himself. But one day, as he swept the courtyard for what felt like the ten thousandth time, he realized that the leaves he was sweeping had changed color seven times since he had arrived.
Seven years. He had been at Spirit Tower Mountain for seven years.
In that time, he had learned more than he had learned in all his centuries on Flower-Fruit Mountain. He had learned to read—those strange characters that glowed above the cave entrance now made sense to him, spelling out the words "Spirit Tower Mountain, Cave of the Slanting Moon and Three Stars." He had learned to meditate, to quiet his mind, to sit for hours without moving. He had learned the basics of martial arts—forms and stances and breathing techniques that made his body stronger and more flexible than it had ever been.
But he had not learned immortality. He had not learned the secrets of death. He had not learned anything that would help him conquer the stone in his belly.
Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if Subodhi had forgotten why he came. If the old master intended to keep him sweeping floors forever. If he had made a terrible mistake, leaving his kingdom and his family for this endless drudgery.
But then he would remember Grandfather's empty eyes. He would feel the stone in his belly. And he would pick up his broom and keep sweeping.
One evening, after seven years of waiting, Subodhi finally spoke to him directly.
The Monkey King was sweeping the main hall—the same hall where he had first met the master, all those years ago. The other students had gone to their quarters. The hall was empty, lit only by a single lamp.
Subodhi sat on his cushion, watching. When the Monkey King finished sweeping and turned to leave, the old master spoke.
"Stay."
The Monkey King stopped. His heart beat faster. Seven years, and the master had never called him back before.
He turned and knelt before Subodhi, waiting.
"You have been here seven years," Subodhi said. "Seven years of sweeping and carrying, of meditating and practicing. In all that time, you have never complained. You have never asked for more. You have simply worked, and waited, and trusted."
The Monkey King said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"I have watched you," Subodhi continued. "I have seen the stone in your belly. I have seen how it drives you, how it haunts you, how it will not let you rest. Most beings would have given up long ago—would have accepted death, made peace with it, moved on to other concerns. But not you."
He leaned forward, his ancient-young eyes burning.
"Why?"
The Monkey King thought about the question. It deserved a true answer.
"Because I cannot accept it," he said finally. "I have seen those I love grow cold and empty. I have felt the weight of their absence. I have looked into the darkness that waits for all of us and found it unbearable. I do not want to make peace with death. I want to defeat it. I want to live—truly live—forever. And I want those I love to live forever too."
Subodhi nodded slowly. "You speak of love."
"Yes."
"And immortality—you seek it for them as well as for yourself?"
"Yes. That is why I must return. That is why I cannot stay here forever, even if you asked me to. My family waits for me. They grow old and die while I learn to sweep floors. Every day I am here, more of them slip away."
Tears pricked his eyes—something that had not happened since Grandfather's funeral.
"I am afraid," he whispered. "Afraid that I will return to find them all gone. Afraid that I will be too late. Afraid that all of this—the journey, the years, the sweeping—will have been for nothing."
Subodhi was quiet for a long moment. Then he rose—something the Monkey King had never seen him do before—and walked to where the monkey knelt. He placed his hand on the golden head.
"You are ready," he said.
The Monkey King looked up, hope flaring in his chest.
"Ready?"
"To learn. To truly learn." Subodhi smiled. "Come back tonight, when the moon is highest. Come alone. Come quietly. And I will begin your real education."
He turned and walked away, leaving the Monkey King kneeling in the empty hall, his heart pounding with hope and fear and joy all mixed together.
Tonight. Tonight, after seven years, he would finally begin to learn.
The moon was high and full when the Monkey King crept through the silent monastery to Subodhi's chamber.
The old master sat on his cushion, waiting. A single lamp burned beside him, casting long shadows on the walls.
"Sit," Subodhi said.
The Monkey King sat.
"For seven years, you have proven your patience," Subodhi began. "For seven years, you have proven your dedication. Now I will test your understanding." He leaned forward. "Tell me—what is death?"
The Monkey King blinked. This was not the question he had expected.
"Death is—" He stopped, realizing he did not know how to answer. "Death is the end. The cessation of life. The moment when the body stops and the—" He stopped again. "The what? What stops? What leaves?"
Subodhi nodded approvingly. "You see the question. Good. Most beings never even get that far." He rose and walked to the window, looking out at the moon. "Death is not one thing, but many. There is the death of the body—when the flesh decays and returns to the elements. There is the death of the mind—when thoughts cease and memories fade. There is the death of the spirit—when the essence that makes you you dissolves into the great emptiness."
He turned back to face the Monkey King.
"To conquer death, you must understand all three. You must learn to preserve the body, to strengthen the mind, to purify the spirit. Only then can you achieve true immortality."
The Monkey King listened, drinking in every word.
"I will teach you," Subodhi said. "I will teach you the secrets of eternal life. The seventy-two transformations that allow you to change your form. The cloud-somersault that carries you one hundred and eight thousand miles in a single leap. The techniques of inner alchemy that transform your body into something that cannot decay."
He paused, his eyes boring into the Monkey King's soul.
"But know this: immortality is not freedom. It is responsibility. Those who live forever must also serve forever—must use their power to help others, to protect the innocent, to maintain the balance of the universe. If you seek immortality only for yourself, only to escape death, you will fail. The Way does not grant its secrets to the selfish."
The Monkey King bowed his head. "I understand, Master. Or—I will understand. I will learn."
Subodhi nodded. "Then let us begin."
That night, under the full moon, the Monkey King received his first true lesson in the arts of immortality.
Subodhi taught him to breathe—not the ordinary breathing of everyday life, but a deeper breathing that drew energy from the universe itself. He taught him to circulate that energy through his body, to store it in places that had no names, to use it to strengthen every cell, every fiber, every part of his being.
He taught him to meditate—not the simple meditation of quieting the mind, but a deeper meditation that allowed him to travel within himself, to explore the inner landscape of his own spirit, to discover truths that had been hidden since his birth from the stone.
And he taught him to transform—first in small ways, changing the color of his fur or the shape of his hands, then in larger ways, becoming birds and beasts and trees and stones, learning to shift his form as easily as other beings shifted their thoughts.
The lessons continued night after night, moon after moon. The Monkey King learned faster than any student Subodhi had ever taught—his mind was quick, his body flexible, his spirit hungry for knowledge. Within months, he had mastered techniques that took other students years. Within a year, he had surpassed everyone in the monastery except the master himself.
But through it all, he never forgot why he was learning. The stone in his belly remained—not as a weight now, but as a compass. It reminded him of his family, his kingdom, his purpose. It drove him to learn faster, work harder, master more.
And Subodhi watched, and smiled, and taught.
One night, after three years of secret lessons, Subodhi called the Monkey King to him.
"You have learned well," the master said. "Better than any student I have ever taught. You have mastered the seventy-two transformations. You have mastered the cloud-somersault. You have mastered the inner alchemy that transforms the body into something eternal."
The Monkey King bowed. "I have learned what you taught me, Master. I am grateful."
"Grateful enough to stay?" Subodhi's eyes twinkled. "I could teach you more. So much more. The secrets of the universe are not exhausted in three years—not in three thousand."
For a moment, the Monkey King was tempted. To stay, to learn, to grow even more powerful. To never leave this peaceful mountain, this place of wisdom and beauty.
But then he thought of Memory, waiting for him on Flower-Fruit Mountain. He thought of his kingdom, his family, the monkeys who had trusted him to return with the gift of eternal life.
"I cannot stay," he said. "My family waits for me. They grow old while I learn. I must return to them—must share what I have learned, must give them the gift of immortality."
Subodhi nodded, as if he had expected this answer. "I thought you would say that." He rose and placed his hand on the Monkey King's head. "Go, then. Return to your mountain, your kingdom, your family. Share what you have learned. Live forever, if you can."
He paused, his ancient eyes growing serious.
"But remember: power without wisdom is dangerous. Immortality without compassion is a curse. You have learned much here, but you have not learned everything. The universe will test you—again and again. How you respond to those tests will determine whether you truly deserve the gifts you have received."
The Monkey King bowed deeply. "I will remember, Master. I will try to be worthy."
"Try." Subodhi smiled. "That is all any of us can do." He gestured toward the door. "Go now. The sun is rising. Your journey home begins."
The Monkey King rose and walked to the door. At the threshold, he turned back.
"Will I see you again, Master?"
Subodhi's smile widened. "Perhaps. The universe is vast, and our paths may cross. But even if they do not—I will be watching. Always watching."
The Monkey King bowed one last time, then stepped through the door and into the dawn.
He did not look back.
He walked down the mountain, past the gardens and courtyards and halls where he had spent ten years of his life. He walked past the immortals who had become his teachers, his friends, his family away from family. He walked past the cave entrance with its glowing characters, past the ancient trees, past the paths that had become so familiar.
And when he reached the bottom of the mountain, he turned east—toward the rising sun, toward the Eastern Sea, toward Flower-Fruit Mountain and the family that waited for him.
He had been gone ten years. Ten years of searching, learning, growing. Ten years of loneliness and hope and fear and joy.
Now, finally, he was going home.
He gathered his power—the power he had earned through years of labor and study—and leaped into the air. The cloud-somersault carried him higher than any bird, faster than any wind. Below him, the world blurred past—mountains and rivers, forests and deserts, villages and cities—all reduced to a streak of color beneath his flying feet.
He laughed aloud, the wind whipping through his golden fur. Ten years, and now he would be home in moments. Ten years, and now he would see his family again. Ten years, and now—
He stopped laughing.
Below him, far below, he saw something familiar. A mountain rising from the sea. A waterfall gleaming in the sun. A cave hidden behind curtains of water.
Flower-Fruit Mountain.
He descended slowly, his heart pounding with anticipation. What would he find? Were they still there? Had they waited? Had any of them survived the ten years of his absence?
He landed at the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to the clearing before the waterfall. And there—
There they were.
Monkeys. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Gathered in the clearing, staring at him with eyes wide with disbelief. And at their front, leaning on a staff, more ancient than ever but still alive—
Memory.
The Monkey King took a step forward.
"I returned," he said. "I promised I would return. And I have brought—"
He never finished the sentence. The monkeys erupted, rushing toward him, surrounding him, embracing him, weeping and laughing and chattering all at once. He was lifted onto their shoulders, carried toward the waterfall, toward the cave, toward home.
And as they carried him, he looked up at the sky and whispered two words.
"Thank you."
For the journey that began with a stone and a question had ended—not with answers, but with a beginning. The Monkey King had returned home, transformed by his years of seeking. But his real journey, the journey that would test everything he had learned and everything he had become, was only just beginning.
And somewhere, on a mountain far to the west, an old immortal smiled.
[End of Chapter 5]